


Distance, Separation, and Everything Inbetween

by ever_increasing_circles



Category: Fake News RPF, The Daily Show, The Daily Show RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-29
Updated: 2009-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-19 03:03:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ever_increasing_circles/pseuds/ever_increasing_circles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following Rob's departure, John finds it hard to adjust to the silence of an otherwise-empty office.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Any similarity between the fictional versions of the people portrayed here and the actual people is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction. This is not an attempt to defame the character of said person on the basis of libel, as the work is FICTIONAL (and NOT an intently false statement created with the express purpose of misleading others about the actual character of said person).

In his office, John Oliver sat typing.

He stared at the screen. He paused. He went from sat straight in the flexible chair to slouching against the backrest, frowning as the next word eluded him and brought his movement to an absolute halt. And he sat there, staring at the screen. Staring. ...Staring. _There_ \--!... He sat back up and carried on, having caught the thread of an idea once more. It was amazing how just one word could bring it all crashing down, sometimes. Nonetheless, as John typed, that momentary roadblock was forgotten; the words flowed and then a box in the corner of the screen popped up, telling him that he had a new email. _From Rob_.

John's fingers slowed once more; the plastic tapping was the loudest sound in the room and only served to remind John how quiet it was, now. He stopped typing and the room fell silent.

 _It shouldn't be like this._

He took a moment to take in that silence, staring at the coloured email indicator. It could wait until at least the end of this page, could it not? Such was the advantage of email over, perhaps, a phonecall. Rob knew John's numbers and knew, intimately, when John was likely to be around. When not to disturb him. When his phone was likely to be disconnected. When he charged it. Missed calls built up quickly. So did emails, but Rob didn't expect such a quick response from those.

John carried on typing.

Some minutes passed before the knock on the door and it swinging open, too quick to give any preparation between the warning and the action. John looked up in surprise for the sound and movement but knew, in retrospect, this action quite predictable. It was Jon. He stood in the open doorway and smiled, "... Hey."

Sometimes, a greeting was just a greeting _and John thought of Rob_. Sometimes it was more layered - shorthand for _how are you? Are you okay? Are you sure? Are you sure you're sure? If you're sure you're sure that's fine, but I'm not sure so I just wanted to make sure, or something_. And Jon stood for a little too long before walking into the office with some purpose but no statement, walking to the window and to where the blinds lay half-tilted. Jon blocked the sunlight for a moment before moving to the other side of the frame, taking the pull, tipping cold bright light into the room. John leant back against his chair and smoothed down his tie, loosely resting his hands across his stomach. He wasn't fooled by any hidden motive and hoped his tone expressed this, "Good morning, Jon."

Jon glanced briefly from the window's view back to John, his expression softening in some kind of acknowledgement before turning his attention back to the landscape.

"You warm enough in here? They think it might snow, later."

"Then, Jon, let it snow. I don't think that's much of a threat in here."

"No, you're right. Good thing you're not the one goin' to the Report offices later." John didn't reply to this, but Jon seemed to see some vague kind of curiosity in John's expression to feel the need to clarify. "Told Stephen I'd see him over lunch." That said as much as needed to be. "... You wanna come with?"

 _You want to make sure I'm not shutting myself in my office again._

"Tell Stephen I was asking after him."

"You were? That's pretty creepy." A smile.

"You know what I mean."

"I do. Sure you don't want to come? My treat--!"

"Thanks for the offer, but I'd rather make sure I finish this off." John indicated towards the computer. "I've already brought my own sandwiches."

Jon walked over from the window to the edge of the desk, leaning one hand against the flat surface and casting a vague glance over the screen. Typed words lay in stark contrast across the word processor and the cursor blinked the premature end of an unfinished sentence. "Wow, I never knew I was such a slave-driver."

"Surprising, I know...! Look, Jon. Just go and see Stephen, alright? I'm quite happy here. I'd feel much better to know I'd definitely got this finished than anything else, at the moment. We've all been working hard, and--"

"You sure you're okay?"

 _Cutting across the excuses, straight and true_. John paused in hesitation for the change of focus, looking up at Jon and knowing the question perfectly serious. Faltering, John looked back towards the computer as he wondered how Jon could look so _grave_ all of a sudden. Was it really so much of a problem? Jon liked to do his bit to look out for the welfare of all of those he came in regular contact with (and some of which he didn't), but wasn't this a bit much? John pressed his lips together in something he hoped approximated a smile, though he knew that Jon knew his smile and knew it wasn't _that_.

"Jon, I'm fine. Don't worry about me." _Stop acting like someone just died. They've moved on to better places, haven't they?_ John wasn't too sure that Jon was convinced by this, but he seemed to give up the argument for the time being. He pushed himself away from the desk and headed back towards the door.

"Yeah, well... if you need anything, just say so. You've got my number if you need me."

"I'm just pulling this to a conclusion, Jon. I'm a big boy now, I think I can do this without somebody holding my hand." He smiled as he spoke and _that_ was warmer. John fully believed in what he said but at the same time, didn't find the idea of Jon's concern entirely unpleasant, either. Perhaps his worries were unfounded but his concern was true and it was always nice to know that somebody was thinking of you, if nothing else... it was fine, though. It was all fine. John kept up his smile and looked Jon in the eye, hoping for that to end the matter. Jon still didn't seem convinced but again, didn't seem willing to argue a point.

"Just so long as you're okay in here. You might wanna check that email, too. Might be something important."

"... It's from Riggle."

"Exactly. ...See you after lunch."

Jon pulled the door shut carefully, softly. John watched the space where he'd been for a few moments, then turning back to his work.

 _Just to the end of this page, first._

****

More than the office, John sometimes found the silence of his apartment quite suffocating.

Most days, it didn't matter. Long days spent writing and recording could be an uphill battle, but it was always a hill they felt it an achievement to climb. Another day, another show, another day spent trying to polish the dry source material into something that would shine on broadcast. They would create and they would record and they'd _made something_ ; it was a continual process and they'd do it all again, again, and again. Creating a line of past experience, they'd all learn and develop. Some days went better than others, but John was always willing to offer up thanks to any intangible force out there he knew he didn't believe in that things had turned out like this. Simply having a job he was happy to attend in the morning and satisfied to return from at night, where the time between returning home and waking up in the morning was still filled by a vague expectation and interest as to what the next day would bring was, he knew, quite the blessing. How many people were really able to say that about their own jobs? He was often tired on getting home, but it was the lethargy that came from the knowledge of a job well done (or at least, a job enjoyed) and he usually, generally, slept through to the morning.

Naturally, however, moods fluctuated. It could depend on the news itself; Jon was quite insistent that it was just a comedy show that they were making, that it didn't hold much sway outside of (or even within) their target demographic. All fair enough, but it was still their job, on the whole, to make the news _funny_. Again, like this, some days went better than others. Sometimes it was easy to feel jealous of those _proper_ reporters who just had to speak the headlines from their autocue. _They_ didn't have to make it funny.

John's own office was exactly one person more empty than it should have been, and he felt quite keenly aware of this. Jon seemed worried for this reason and John understood the concern, appreciated it, but didn't know what to _do_ about it. It wasn't as if the situation had been terrible at all - just, Rob had had these ideas for so long and was deciding, now, to do something about them. He'd been enthusiastic but firm in his decision and all anybody could do was to be happy for him; that sadness for the prospect of change was inevitable for any party involved, but to see Rob Riggle with the shine in his eyes and aim for his prize, it was impossible not to smile in return and wish him well. Of course that was the reaction, who would do anything but? Even John only wanted him to succeed. (Especially John.) Some people just didn't stay in the same place for too long.

 _Something about sharks...?_ John would ponder these thoughts over hot cups of tea. Would remember conversations from what seemed like so long ago, " _You guys really all do that?!_ "

" _What?_ "

" _Sit around drinkin' tea--! Like when you say 'teatime', you really got a time? For tea?_ "

" _... I'm not even going to grace that with an answer, Riggle._ "

" _You're so damn British, you know that?_ "

" _Hazard of the nationality. You never did say what you wanted; tea or coffee?_ "

" _I'll have what you're havin'._ "

" _... Tea it is, then._ "

John didn't know how much of it had been Rob's amusement of having a new toy to play with, but had found himself serving tea quite often during those visits (and didn't have the heart to admit to Rob that he probably drank coffee more often, these days). He wasn't sure how far he was imprinting a stereotype with that, but there _was_ something relaxing about a hot drink in the evening. He'd sit by the window with his arm and the mug on the windowsill, watching the steam rise and the city beyond and he'd _think_. And it was too quiet, even with the noise of the city outside; that was too vague and unrelated, and so he had only his own thoughts to focus on. Loud as they seemed, _louder than anything_. And he'd think of Rob. Surely as much was to be expected. He'd look at his phone. Too soon?... (If he didn't phone first, Rob only would later.)

John turned the television on, instead.

The last time Rob had been at the office, they'd stood outside afterward. It had been a pleasant day for the time of year, though perhaps slightly too cold to make standing around without a winter jacket entirely comfortable. Rob had his coat, but he was going home. John didn't, but was just there to see him off. Rob would be gone before the chill set in.

" _... I'm not leaving you, John._ "

In the marginally-awkward silence, John had been concentrating on the warmth emanating from the polystyrene cup in his hand. " _Hm?_ "

" _I'm not leaving you. You know that, right?_ "

" _... Of course, why would you--_ " The attempt to sound self-assured had failed, and John knew it. Rob was watching him carefully and, with the only point of warmth being that coffee, John felt quite self-conscious as he looked back down towards it. Why would he say that, though? Work and relationships were two entirely separate things, wasn't that obvious?

" _It's just this place I'm leaving. We're still good, yeah?_ "

John wasn't sure if each questioning note was meant to confirm Rob's confidence in the matter, or whether it was to cause a reply from John so as to assuage any fears he might have been trying to communicate in his own roundabout fashion.

" _... We are, yes._ "

" _At least look at me when you say that._ "

John looked up and wished that this didn't have to feel so difficult. " _... No, you're right. What's that got to do with anything?_ " A small smile. " _I trust you more than that._ "

" _Yeah, and I'm trusting you, too! I know what goes on back there. Tell Jason to keep his fucking hands to himself._ "

" _And Sam not to encourage him, yes, yes._ "

A long pause followed, neither wanting to speak the obvious. John drank some of the coffee to distract himself through the silence, feeling cold but more than that, feeling _heavy_. His ear pricked slightly on hearing a small chuckle from Rob, "... _What?_ "

" _Could be worse._ "

" _Could it?_ "

" _Yeah. Come on, what if it was you? At least we're in the same damn city. If it was you doing this, you'd fuck off back to England before any of us knew what was goin' on._ "

" _I wouldn't--_ " Again, John stopped himself. He didn't like to entertain that possibility; having landed this, something he would definitely have labelled as his 'dream job', he was determined to stay for as long as he felt welcome to do so... though by this point, after the quantity of time now passing in years, it was less like that and more about being _part_ of something, part of that _team_. They'd welcomed him, he felt welcome. More time spent there only pulled him further, only made him more determined to stay for as long as was possible. If he needed inspiration, he only had to look towards Jon and Stephen; Stephen had been around before even _Jon_ had been on the show and now, even with his own show and separate creative team, he was still _around_. That was the extreme-case scenario though, and it _was_ Stephen; naturally, Jon would want to keep him close by. The rest of them, in the haphazard family of hosts and correspondents, were the unruly children who would someday fly the nest. And here Rob was, spreading his wings.

" _You would, though. Go do that carnival thing you're always talkin' about._ "

John frowned slightly and momentarily before realising what it was that Rob meant. "... _Festival, you mean. The Edinburgh Festival._ "

" _Yeah, that._ "

Maybe he would. He didn't like to think about it.

" _The next time I go to Edinburgh, you're still coming with me._ "

" _You think I've forgotten? John Oliver and 'Friends', huh..._ "

" _It doesn't have to be. You could just be a tourist, if that was what you wanted._ "

" _Because everyone looves a big American tourist._ "

" _Trust me, you've not been down the Royal Mile of a lunchtime. You'd be the last thing people would be looking at...! And, I have to admit, it'd be interesting to see you as the fish out of water, for once._ "

" _Yeah, thanks._ " John smiled at the sarcasm and couldn't look away before noticing it quickly fade. Rob stared at him, serious and sincere. " _... And we're still gonna do all that._ "

" _... Yes. Yes, we are._ "

" _I'll do my thing, you do yours, we can meet in the middle somewhere._ "

Rob was right, John knew it. Nonetheless, he remained silent, still unsure as to how to respond to the situation even at this late stage. It was something ending... wasn't it? But at the same time, the important things were staying the same. Could they, though? It was one thing to consider work and relationships as separate entities, but they'd met as colleagues and that office had been theirs for far longer than it hadn't. (That office hadn't always had Rob in it. John wondered if he could even remember what that had been like, so long ago. Supposed he'd find out, soon.) John tried to smile but couldn't, "... _Mm._ "

John knew that Rob noticed this, that Rob was the most likely to notice it and that he was the person most likely to ignore it, too. As expected, his expression broke into a grin and he cuffed John across the back of his shoulder, just slightly too hard. " _Yeah! So don't worry about it. You're still working through the end of the week? I'll come see you once you get out, or something. I'll bring food. We can go somewhere, whatever you feel like. I can bring something, we can go out for something, whatever you--_ "

" _Rob, Rob, stop it. Stop. The longer you stay here, the harder you're making it to leave._ "

John saw Rob's eyes narrow slightly, not knowing what it meant. Maybe he thought John's words were cruel. Maybe they _were_ cruel, just a little. John hadn't meant them to be. They just felt... _true_. This was neither the time nor the place for heartfelt declarations; on one hand, only the career aspect was changing and so nothing meant that they couldn't be as strong as they'd ever been. On the other, Rob had only come by to pick up the last of his things. It was cold and John was feeling it, knowing that if he didn't say something now, Rob's sudden changes in mood had the possibility of guiding them through the rest of the afternoon. Rob might have left, but John hadn't; there was still a show to be recorded before the day was out, and he was feeling conscious of time. Work. Pressure.

" _... You're right. Sorry._ "

" _It's okay, you don't need to apologise. Just... go home, put your feet up._ "

" _Have a cup of tea?_ "

" _If you want._ "

A smile and a nod, "... _Yeah, I'll do that. ...Did you want me to come by afterwards? I don't mind._ "

" _I'll be fine, Rob. Don't put yourself out on my account._ "

Rob was already making his way from the building, walking backwards for a few steps to address John as he left. " _I'll see you later--!_ "

There was no point in fighting it, John knew that. He smiled (that tight smile) and flashed his hand in a wave, noting Rob's gaze lingering just for a moment too long before his smile returned and he walked away. And it was still cold, even the coffee having cooled by this point. John went back inside the building.

In the moments of quiet contemplation through the days and weeks that followed, on occasion, John's thoughts would drift over that exchange, and others. For about the first week or so, Rob had appeared with dogged determination bearing usually too much food to really appreciate at the end of a working day. Then, the odd day was missed. Those after-office visits then became the exception rather than the norm; everybody soon settled into the knowledge that Rob was gone, as did Rob himself. And that was fine.

John found himself growing increasingly annoyed with the frequency he seemed to be using that word. To Rob, he was always fine. To Jon, he was always fine. To anybody who asked, he was fine. And he was, wasn't he? A perfect, small word that summed everything up. _Fine_. Good. Decent. Satisfactory. There was no reason why he wouldn't be. It was change, and change could be unsettling, but everything changed in the end, didn't it? Even Jon and Stephen's situation had changed from one thing to the other before becoming what it currently was. Enduring change, they were only stronger for it. That _was_ the exception, though. (Sometimes the others would tease him, " _Looks like you're his favourite now--!_ "... John would smile and try not to reply. That wasn't even an issue, was it? If it was, he hadn't been aware of it.)

Lying across his sofa, John would stare at the ceiling.

The more he told people that he was fine, the less they seemed to believe him. The less Jon seemed to believe him. Andy was another, " _Are you sure...?_ ". Despite being unable to see him, when Andy asked that, John was able to picture his expression perfectly and wondered just what it was about his voice or manner that was indicating to people that he _wasn't_. This wasn't a problem. It was a complete non-event. In life, people came and went all the time. John was quite aware that, to most of the people he'd known through to that point, he'd become one of the latter.

The apartment still lay silent and, for the moment, he wasn't going to do anything to change that.

****

Coming back after a break, the weather was still cold outside. The blind was pulled up and the office brightly lit for it, but just looking out of the window made everything in view seem stark and cold. Nonetheless, John's computer sat on standby and he was perched against the edge of the desk on the side of the room opposite the window, slowly sipping coffee. There was work to be done, he knew that, but just for _now_ , just for the _moment--_...

He felt glad to be back at work, though the current moment held only procrastination. The familiar routes and corridors, the way the view didn't change, the way that pot plant in the corner was just starting to wilt. (John wondered if it'd be okay to pour coffee on it, while he remembered. He didn't know much about plants, but supposed that this wouldn't really help.) The meetings and the planning, the scripts and the filming. Seeing everyone again, offering a smile before closing the office door. He'd seen Jon notice him, but hadn't returned the glance. He had work to do. They all had work to do. A few hours and they'd all meet up again with their findings, presenting what they had. It wasn't that John didn't already have a finished piece, but he'd wanted two finished pieces before the end of this working block. And he would. He definitely would. (Another sip of coffee.)

Being so invested into the working day, the weeks they had off could sometimes feel like strange punctuation to the routine. John found himself missing it when he wasn't there and supposed that a good sign, but wondered how far it was also evidence of not _quite_ being able to disassociate himself enough to relax, either. Often, those weeks brought the occasional stand-up spot. The weeks at the end of the year brought a return to family and friends in England. Those were pleasant and John enjoyed them, far enough away and distracted by the immediate enough not to worry. He didn't need to tell people that he was fine, they didn't ask it of him. He wasn't provoking it from them, in whatever subconscious manner stirred them.

Naturally, Rob kept track of when The Daily Show was filming. Would phone without fail during the last Thursday evening, already wanting to make evening plans. John would tell him to call back in the morning, and he would. _Too early_. The afternoon was better. _Then_ they could make plans. Saturday was good but Monday was better. ( _Aren't you busy, too?_ )

Neither of them had ever been too specific. They'd meet up somewhere, go eat someplace, go somewhere else afterwards, something like that. Whatever they felt like. It had always been like that, but John couldn't help but notice a slight difference between those times in the past and these times _now_ ; again, an inevitable consequence of things that changed. Before, the weeks were spent together and so the weekend activities reflected this; it was never such a big thing, meeting for coffee and doing this or that, or nothing. Maybe just snacks and television back at John's apartment. Pulled out of the daily routine, they could sit back and reflect, think back and reminisce. _Remember when Jon did that thing--. I couldn't believe it when you--. I didn't think I was gonna--_. Moving the interaction from the office to somewhere informal felt relaxing, and John relaxed into it. Now, however, they were two separate points meeting up in the middle, as Rob had said, and something about it all felt... disjointed, almost. An element of familiarity had been lost. Rob didn't know what John had been doing that week, John didn't know what Rob had been doing that week, they could detail each other in as much as they wanted but it was still only second-hand information. That thing? ...Maybe you just had to be there.

One moment that particularly stuck out in John's mind as highlighting this had been between coffee and the evening meal, moving from one establishment to the other. They'd been maybe two minutes away from the coffeehouse before John noticed Rob lacking his jacket, and so he waited as Rob went back to, hopefully, retrieve the missing item. He'd returned a few minutes later to find John a few feet away from where he'd left him, leant against the arm of a nearby bench and leafing through a paper.

Rob approached from the front, noting John's attention totally taken by whatever article he was reading. He poked the centre of the paper quickly, startling John slightly and causing him to look up. " _Oh--!... You got it back, then. That's good._ "

" _John?_ "

His eyes were scanning the article again. " _Yes?_ "

" _Put the paper down._ "

He glanced up again, " _What?_ "

" _Put the paper down and walk away from it, John._ "

" _But I--_ "

" _It's your week off! You don't have to think about it right now. The news'll still be waiting for you when you get back, you know. It doesn't stop just 'cause you got other things to think about. Whatever they've got now will be old in a week and I'm hungry, so let's go eat._ "

John didn't reply to that, but appeared conflicted enough for Rob to notice. He plucked the paper from John's hands with a thumb and forefinger down the middle and closed it up with his other hand, " _C'mon man, who do you love more, me or the news? Catch up when I'm not around, we got time to spend together here. And food to eat. Because I'm hungry. Yeah?_ "

Sighing, John took the paper from Rob's hands and folded it in half again, placing it down on the end of the bench. " _I could turn that back around to you, you know. Out of these two things, which does Rob Riggle look forward to the most: spending time with John Oliver, or getting to eat somewhere a bit fancy?_ "

They were already walking away. " _Can't I like both? Maybe I like getting to eat somewhere fancy with John Oliver, how about that?_ " (John knew he really didn't have an argument against this.) " _You keep actin' like that and I'm gonna wonder about you..._ "

" _How do you mean?_ "

" _I've seen you, watchin' the CNN newsfeeds, watchin' that Cooper guy. Stick with me, man--! I won't hurt you like Fox News does--!_ " (John couldn't help but smile at that, feeling the point of contention drop away. But it was still a point.)

The mistake had been, John supposed, to assume - or to try, desperately, to believe - that the lines of work and romance didn't cross over in the slightest. Rob had left and that was sad, but work was work and their relationship was their relationship and neither was so dependent upon the other to cause much difficulty, surely. However, in practice, John found this separation somewhat tiring; it hadn't been until that small exchange that he realised how far apart those lines now ran. From being something that might have crossed over, those two aspects were now entirely divided - not only merely apart, but also in a way that now even seemed to discourage their crossover. Work and relationships were now two _very_ separate things, and John hadn't been prepared for the depth of difference between them.

A knock on the door shook John from his thoughts; it didn't open immediately, thus narrowing down John's mental list of potential people on the other side. He walked back towards his side of the office, supposing it didn't hurt to try to at least _seem_ as if he was doing some work. "Come in?"

The door opened and, somewhat unexpectedly, it was Jon. He let himself in without saying anything; John set his coffee down next to his computer with a small smile, "It's not like you to be so humble, Mr. Stewart."

"Hm?"

"You don't normally tend to wait."

Jon walked over to the empty desk, leaning against it as John had done just previously. "Yeah, well. You're on your own in here, there's only so many things I'm gonna catch you doing. Makes my life a lot easier."

"Do I even want to know?"

"Let's just say, there have been a lot of correspondents over the years. Something about shutting them away in office pairs seems to make things _happen_ , I don't know. You'd really think we'd learn, but hey, we only got so many offices."

John pressed his hands together and leant against them, glancing across at Jon. "And I'm the safe one now, is that it...?"

He hadn't meant those words to come out quite as dry as they did, but he couldn't take them back and saw that familiar, serious look descend over Jon's expression. "... That's... kinda what I came to talk to you about, actually."

"Oh?"

Jon wasn't quick to answer this, taking a few paces across the carpet, dragging two fingers across the smooth of the desk surface. He looked up at John and then back to the other desk, looking it over; John had stopped noticing it, it being the same as it ever was. To the eye that had been used to seeing that side of the room occupied, it seemed almost unbearably empty. The standard office desktop, the disused desk lamp, another small plant for decoration. These things had previously sat amongst piles of paper, desk organisers and whatever else had been granted desk space, but now they stood out for the mere fact of remaining. John didn't look away from his own computer as Jon silently looked around the room and the other desk and didn't look up when he spoke, either. (He didn't address his previous subject.)

"You've never been tempted to move stuff over here?"

"Over where?"

"This desk. I know if it was me, I'd have totally spread out by now." John still didn't look up, tempting Jon into being somewhat more direct. "... You've got an entire office to yourself, John--! Doesn't that make you want to kick back a bit? You're all... pushed over to one side, there."

"That's--" ( _Rob's desk_.) "--... I don't need that much space. I'm quite compact."

"Yeah, but--... oh, hey, what's this?" John did look up, then; where the desk's shelf met the back corner of the room was one of the familiar blue pieces of paper that tended to drift around the office, a script sheet. John wasn't even too sure what was on that piece of paper, just that it had been there since before Rob had left and so, he hadn't moved it. This hadn't been through any particular line of thought (that he'd been aware of), but to see Jon pick it up was almost like he'd _disturbed_ something. John stopped himself before he made an issue out of something that he couldn't quite explain. Unaware of any of this, Jon turned the piece of paper over in his hands, "I remember this. Yeah, that was a good one. ...Pretty old though, isn't it? Don't we have cleaners?"

"Maybe they thought it was something important."

"And is it?" ( _Is it, John?_ )

"It's just an old script, Jon. You can see that."

"One of Riggle's, isn't it?"

"It's not likely to be one of mine." John watched carefully as Jon put the piece of paper back down to where it'd been before.

"... Look, John. I keep asking, and you're not biting. I--"

"You're going to ask me how I am, aren't you?"

"And you'll say ' _I'm fine--!_ ' like you always do."

John pretended to concentrate on the open window on his computer for a moment, delicately pressing the enter key. "You've got quite good at this, Stewart."

"It's not something I'm proud of."

It annoyed John to feel so transparent, though he knew that (at least in front of Jon) he hadn't really been anything else; it was just that, Jon seemed to be the only one in the immediate surroundings willing to take issue with that. He knew that, even just sat there as he was, he was pushing the situation to a limit. Perhaps it would have been easier to admit that something _was_ wrong, not that John was too sure of the specifics himself to be able to admit it in the first place. To admit that would have been to invite discussion and maybe sharing the issue would have helped, but John never felt that had quite been his style; sometimes, you just had to bear things. This felt like one of those situations. If you couldn't adjust to change then you wouldn't get anywhere, and no amount of gentle colleague concern was going to change that; he just had to find the point at which this all became bearable, riding it out until the situation levelled. If there was any problem, it was only with his own private interpretation of events. None of that, he felt, was any of Jon's business. He let the silence lie, just for a few moments.

"... You said you came to tell me something?"

"We've been looking through the audition tapes."

"I see...?"

"You'll be getting a new roomie, soon."

"... I see."

"Yeah? Getting to mentor our pick of the wide-eyed and fresh-faced." There was a hint of warning in Jon's voice, "I don't want you scaring anyone off gettin' all prickly on them. Okay? Senior New Correspondent John Oliver takes responsibility."

"' _Senior New_ '--... I've been here two and a half years, Jon..."

"I know, I know. I've been here ten. You're new to me."

John looked up at that, ready to say something in his defence before he realised that he didn't really _have_ a defence, and Jon didn't look as if he was trying to pick a fight, either. Instead, something about the way he looked down at John seemed quite fond, almost wistful. "... You _are_ the senior correspondent now, though. Congratulations, John. You've stuck it out longer than they did!"

"You can't say that, Jon. Sam, Jason, they were both here far longer--"

"And whoever else we hire, you'll have that two-and-a-half-year headstart on."

"I wasn't aware that it was a competition."

A slight pause. "... Have you seen Riggle recently?"

"I saw him during the filming break."

"Good. How is he?"

"... He's--... the same as always."

"I'll take that as a good thing." Without warning, Jon was walking back towards the office door. He patted John's shoulder as he walked past, "Keep it up. At least we won't have to tidy the desk for the next one." John silently watched him go, holding the eye contact when he turned with the familiar phrase, "... Call me if you need me." He closed the door behind him.

Not for the first time, Jon left John staring at the door and pondering that statement. Jon still worried, his very presence in the office to begin with was proof of that. He was worried and he still presented that offer as his parting word, every time. That, or words to that effect. John had never felt in need of it, and so had never called. He always wondered, though. Every time, he wondered.

Content in the knowledge that he'd be left alone until the next meeting, John pushed the chair away from his desk again and let his computer fall to the screensaver. He stood by the chair and looked at the other desk, looked across the lamp and the plant and still in the corner, that sheet of paper.

It didn't matter. Jon had moved it, so it didn't matter anymore. John pulled it close with two fingers, picking it up and glancing it over before scrunching it into a tight ball, throwing it over to the bin next to his desk. He missed, but he didn't go to pick it up. They had cleaners, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeling cornered by Jon's continual concern, John decides to see how far a casual offer can take him.

It was late enough that even the dedicated crowds of fans had subsided, the street outside the studio now empty of anybody who might have cared. It was cold, but it had been cold for a long time and John knew it wasn't going to subside, not just yet. He pulled his jacket tight around his shoulders and watched the Thursday-night traffic sail past, watched the cars pass with slowing frequency as the evening advanced and the rush hour subsided. And it _was_ getting late, John knew that. It was late and he should have been heading home, he _should_ have been heading home, every thought that passed through his mind demanded to know _why aren't you?_ but he still stood there. He watched the traffic, he watched passers-by, he watched nothing in particular. He pulled his phone out of his trouser pocket and tugged the glove off of one hand to go to the dial, to scroll down the list, to settle on that one name. He stared at it, knowing _that_ the reason for his continued presence in the walkway.

Jon's number.

Jon always offered. Always offered. Always made sure that John knew the option still stood. What exactly it was that the option entailed or why Jon thought he was in such need of it, John wasn't sure. He still stared at the number. An 'option', a 'chance'... even as somebody who worried, John knew that Jon couldn't fix the situation. Who could?... Perhaps this could be the end of it. John didn't mind Jon worrying, but felt a rising sense of irritation every time he saw that concerned expression and knew that he shouldn't, _knew_ that Jon only worried, but didn't like the thought of being treated as something delicate, either. He wasn't fragile and wouldn't break, and Jon beginning every sentence as if it were the last straw of pressure that threatened to shatter everything was starting to wear thin. It was only an issue because they made it one, surely?

(They'd made some picks on new correspondents, Jon had said.)

(They'd let John have his choice of office 'companion', Jon had said.)

(John wasn't fond of the implication.)

Any indefinite situation would only go on for as long as they let it. Jon was the kind of person who liked to think that his machine of correspondents ran well-oiled, and for as long as something discordant remained, Jon would call attention to it. Because he was a kind person who only wanted the best for his employees, John knew that. The uncomfortable strength of the chill in the air felt appropriate, somehow; it _wasn't_ Jon's problem and he shouldn't need to concern himself with it, John had that decided and definite. His writing was still fine, wasn't it? The recorded segments, the studio pieces, had they lost anything? John was determined to do his best and so invited criticism, but little came. None that was relevant to this situation. His work was fine, _that problem_ was separate.

 _That problem_. _That which related to Rob_. John hated to think of it as such. Hated to think of Rob, completely oblivious to all of this and unaware of the spreading ripples his absence caused. Hated to think of himself as the kind of person who would ever be affected like this, and to know just what a hypocrite that made him. _Well, so be it_.

He pressed the dial button firmly and held the phone to his ear, staring coolly across the road as he did so. He rocked back and forth slightly on his heels, the movement reminding him of how cold he really was, but he didn't care. It wasn't important. This was all uncomfortable. The dial tone held for longer than John felt necessary, but Jon did eventually pick up.

" _Hey, John? Is that you?_ "

"I think it'd be fairly reasonable to assume that, if your phone told you so, it would indeed be me. Nobody's stolen my phone, I'm not a prank-caller. Now that you ask, I'm fairly sure that I am in fact myself. And you?"

There was a long silence from the other end. John waited. He knew that he was coming off as short-tempered, but didn't particularly care. If he tried to smile or didn't try to hide it, Jon picked up on it either way. It was Thursday night, they had the rest of the weekend ahead of them. It was after-hours, he didn't have to pretend anymore.

"Jon, where are you right now?"

" _... I'm at the Report offices. Why d'you ask?_ "

The silence came from John's end, this time. That question, so open and innocent and John _didn't know_. He was hesitating and he hated that, too.

" _John?_ "

"... This is my call, Jon."

" _Your--... what?_ "

John sighed in a terse manner, "My call. Practically every time you see me these days, you tell me to call you. Call you if I need you, isn't that right? This is me, calling you. Therefore, the implication is that--... the implication is--... the implication can speak for itself, I think."

Jon at least seemed to respect the tone of the conversation, " _Okay. What do you need me for?_ "

That wasn't hesitation, that was a genuine question spoken with full confidence. John hadn't been expecting a question like that and stood thrown, saying nothing. Surely, for Jon to insist on making that his parting comment, he had some kind of plan attached to the words...? He wouldn't make an offer without something _to_ offer, would he...?

"... You're so reasonable."

" _You make that sound like a bad thing._ "

"It's not helping. Okay, look: I'm still outside the studio right now. I'm going home. Whenever it is that you're done with the Report, I want you there, too."

" _What, at your--_ "

"My apartment, yes."

(Nothing more than that. No offer, no implication, just a setting.)

" _I don't know how much longer we're gonna be here, but I'll be there when I can. Shouldn't be too much longer. That good enough?_ "

"Tell Stephen I said hello."

" _... I'll see you later, John._ "

Blank tone signalled the end of the call. John stared at the lit screen until it faded into darkness, at which point he locked it and slipped it into his jacket pocket. There, he found his other glove; he pulled it back over his fingers and gave the generally deserted street one last look-over before embarking on the journey home.

From the expanse of the studio street back to the familiar sound of his key in the lock, John found it hard to decide what he should be focusing on. He'd avoided the question of purpose when Jon had asked it and knew that this wouldn't be any easier for being face-to-face with the man, as John knew he would be before the end of the evening. Perhaps they would talk about things; exactly what he wasn't sure, but supposed that his living-space was perhaps an easier background for whatever came. He wouldn't have scripts to finish and they wouldn't have meetings to go to, but this was really a double-edged sword; at work, at least work itself was the main excuse. Here, there would be no excuse, only each other. Therefore, talking was a likely possibility. John wasn't sure he was looking forward to this; Rob knew him best and Andy knew him most and John had opened up to them both to varying degrees (the former after much persuasion and the latter after rare quantities of alcohol) and it wasn't that he didn't _trust_ Jon, it was just that he'd never really felt that his own feelings were particularly the business of others, no matter who they were. This wasn't Jon's fault or even much to do with him at all, just that his attentions on the situation left John feeling smothered, and _that_ was a problem.

Jon was an understanding kind of person, though (to a fault, John couldn't help but think). If he could highlight those key words through conversation, John felt that his feelings towards the matter would be appreciated and that would draw a line over things. (And there would still be a working atmosphere that felt off-kilter. Maybe showing the ropes to someone new could provide a distraction, but distractions never solved the core problem.)

 _What is that, though...?_

John didn't know what was occupying Jon over at the Report offices, but felt that he had a fairly good idea. Of course, though. _Those_ two. Naturally. John changed out of his work clothes, taking the opportunity for a brief shower. His phone rang. He hurried from the shower only to look at the handset and see that it was Rob; once the call died and his display flashed _Missed Call_ , John set the phone to silent and left it on the table next to the front door. Tonight could be a crime of neglect. He could think of excuses later, and apologies were so much easier after the fact. He took his time in finishing the shower.

It was the late evening when the tinny door-chime caused John to leap up from the sofa. It rang two and a half times before he reached the front door, opening it to the sight of Jon Stewart with his finger on the buzzer. He looked up on realising that the door was open, then removing his finger from the button. There was an awkward moment as eye contact was sustained and then dropped away, John glancing to the side. Jon attempted to regain it, trying to glance around John's line of sight.

"Do I get to come in?"

"Oh, of course, of course. Sorry." John stepped aside in the front hallway area, motioning with one hand for Jon to come in. He did so; John closed the door behind him, mentally chiding himself for already behaving with such deference. He paused as he drew the bolt and chain across, trying to gather his thoughts. He took a deep breath and turned around to address Jon, only to find him not present; taking the few steps through to the main living area revealed Jon already having hung his jacket on the nearest chair and settled quite comfortably on the sofa. He sat with his arm along the back rest and looked up when John walked in.

"So talk to me."

"What?"

"Talk to me, John. I want to know what's on your mind. ...That _is_ why you called me out here, right? You had something to say?"

John drifted slowly across the room, feeling a brief moment of incoherent pressure before going over to the comfortable chair that sat at an angle to the sofa. A pile of magazines sat over the cushion, he took them and slipped them on the undershelf of the table beside, sitting down abruptly and leaning back into the softness of the cushions.

"... Stop worrying about me, Jon."

Jon's expression didn't particularly change, but John couldn't help but feel that something about that gaze became somewhat more intense for his declaration. John found it hard to continually look in Jon's direction, but knew that he couldn't look away from this; it would only last for as long as it took to be over, after all. The silence held for a few moments before Jon laughed, a short buffer between thought and sentiment. "You know, I really can't do that. Sorry, John. Try again."

"... What do you want me to say?"

A slight shrug, "You were the one who called me over here."

John gave in and looked to one side, taking in the view of the dimmed kitchen area and biting against the flesh of his lower lip. Inviting Jon over, he knew, had been to practically give the man a magnifying glass and invite him to take a look, and John wasn't sure that he liked the thought. "... That's basically it, though. I mean, it's--... it's not that I don't appreciate it, it's always nice to know that people are thinking of you, but for god's sake, Jon--!"

"Am I being unreasonable?"

"No, no, nothing like that. If anything, you're _too_ reasonable."

"Yeah, you said that earlier. Didn't really get what you meant. You want me to be unreasonable? Should I not give a fuck, is that it?"

"No, I don't mean that--"

"Sounds like you do, though. Jesus, John, what kind of place did you come from where people showing basic human kindness makes you act like this?"

"I--"

"I get interns askin' me what's up with you. Don't really know what to tell them. What do you think I should tell them?"

The silence that followed led John to believe that this was in fact an actual question that Jon seemed to want to hear the answer for. The more he thought on it the more harried his thoughts became, the harder it became to think of anything at all. John leant forward, his hands clasped together. He stared down at them, "... I don't really know what to say, Jon. I'm sorry."

Another silence, during which John couldn't help but wonder if this was his grace period; on chancing a look up, he noted that Jon wasn't looking at him anymore and seemed instead to be quite deep in thought. What sorts of conclusions could he come to? What was so obvious as to leave evidence for thought of a solution? If it really was that kind of situation, what was it that Jon realistically thought he could fix?... (And at the same time, Jon's previous words echoed in John's mind. For as much as he felt stifled by all of this, wouldn't it have been worse for it to be the opposite? He'd been so caught up in the present, he hadn't dedicated any thought towards the other possibilities. What was worse than this? What was better than this? Perhaps, he thought, these were all the things that Jon himself considered.)

"... It's 'cause of Riggle, isn't it?" (This wasn't really a question.)

Saying that seemed both so simple and so complicated. Yes, yes it was. Sort of. Maybe. Not really. In a way. Possibly.

"Riggle left, and you're still hurting."

 _You don't need to keep repeating it_. John became momentarily fascinated by his right hand, taking a finger to his lips and biting beside the nail. There were too many knee-jerk reactions to that question, none of which, he knew, would fit into this situation. Really, it was those knee-jerk reactions that had got him into this situation in the first place, wasn't it?... Looking over at Jon again, he knew he owed it to the man to at least be truthful, this time. Not that he'd ever lied before, but--... perhaps withholding information was compounding the situation just as much?

"It's stupid."

Jon nodded, seeming momentarily enthused to hear words that weren't simply outright denial. "What is?"

"... You know."

"Why don't you tell me, just so we can be sure I know...?"

John sighed, repeating the sentiment as if it were a chore. "Riggle left and I'm still like _this_ over it. Making you worry, making _interns_ worry, making everybody tiptoe around me. I'm not--... I'm not... do I frighten you, Jon? I've... never seen myself as particularly intimidating. I'm not going to explode if somebody trips over a word. Am I that bad, Jon, that nobody knows what to say to me anymore? Am I really projecting this--... this... this _aura_ of something, something that's suddenly made everything terribly awkward...?"

"If I said 'yes', would that make you angry?"

John held Jon's line of sight for a few moments, considering this. Pushing his hands into a steeple, it was hard to know _what_ to say. "... I'd want to know how to stop it."

"Okay. I'm no therapist, though. It's your problem, what do you think you should do?"

The fact that Jon Stewart couldn't fix _everything_ as a matter of course was one of those things that John had to remind himself. What _was_ there to do, though? He laughed, humourless and bitter. "Stop it? Stop projecting whatever's being sent out." A smile to the same sentiment, "Pull myself together, stop being so fucking pathetic. Remind myself that, oh, do you know what? Sometimes, things change. Quite often, in fact. The fact that I have some inherent inability to come to terms with this is, surely, only my own problem. It's not your problem, it's not Rob's problem, it's not anybody's problem but my own, Jon. Perhaps, I just have to learn how to deal with that."

"I don't think you are, though."

"Me neither. What else do you suggest?"

(Stalemate.)

"... You're still with Riggle though, aren't you?"

"... I am."

"Have you tried, you know, _talking_ to him about any of this?"

John's pointed glance to the side said about as much as needed to be said.

"Look, John. I--..." Hesitating, Jon got up off the sofa and walked to the edge nearest where John sat, perching himself on the armrest, instead. He folded his arms. "I know how you feel. Really."

John looked up. "Stephen?"

A small head gesture, "Partly."

"That doesn't count."

"No?"

"No."

"Look at me, John." (He did.) "I know what the problem is. I _know_ what it's like. I know, because I'm the same, or at least, pretty similar. You know how many correspondents we've had, over the years? A lot, that's how many. You know which ones I'm fond of? All of them. You know who I'm proudest of? Everybody. You know who I miss? Each and every one of them. And you know who makes it feel better?... There's you guys, the current crop. In the future, I'll be fond of you, too. Proud of you. Miss you. Every time we lose someone, we're losing someone who can't be replaced. And that's great. I wouldn't want to replace any of them. That's... that's their legacy to the show. Yeah?"

"And we get left behind."

Jon dropped into a crouch, to better be on John's level. "You really feel like working on The Daily Show is being 'left behind'...?"

A sigh. "No. I could never feel like that."

Jon reached out and patted John's shoulder, "Right. Good. I've not lost you yet."

Something about Jon's tone seemed warm, as if he felt they'd made some kind of breakthrough. John couldn't help but be a degree wary; had Jon ever thought this a likely danger? To lose him, to lose him to _what_...? He'd be a correspondent for as long as they needed (or wanted) him, that had never been in question. John looked Jon in the eye, sensing that Jon felt pleased for whatever conclusion he thought he'd come to. Jon's hand stayed on his shoulder. He gently pushed it aside, "... But it doesn't solve anything, Jon. It's not--... okay, maybe it's not 'being left behind', but it's still--... it's still _something_. You were never going to lose me, that was never part of this, but that's... that's not--..."

"You're a loyal guy, John. I like that of you. Rob went off, broke that loyalty. Is that it?"

John shook his head, "Not _that_ so much... he's doing something he wants to do, he's following his own dream, it's just--..."

"That dream doesn't contain us anymore?"

... _Maybe_. John couldn't say anything as he considered this. Jon continued, "... Some people are just like that, though. If you get what you want, you become complacent. There's nothing wrong with that, means you're comfortable with what you're doing. Some people--"

"Have to keep moving?"

"... Yeah. You've already thought that, huh."

"It had crossed my mind."

Jon lifted himself down from the crouch, sitting down with his back against the sofa. "So he's doing what he wants. You're doing what you want. For as long as you've known each other, that's been the same thing. Now, suddenly, it's not. Hasn't that broken down a lot of relationships? All this kinda ' _what do you want from me!?_ ' stuff. But it's not you, John. It's the show. And you're part of the show. So maybe, I dunno. You feel it _is_ you?... If it's that, I can say this now, you've done nothing wrong. It's really--... it's not you, it's them. Him. There's... no way of saying any of this without it sounding like some broken relationship, is there?"

John couldn't help a small smile, "Isn't that ridiculous?"

"Maybe. Depends how seriously you take it."

"... I'm taking it too seriously, aren't I?"

"I never said that."

"I did, though."

Jon leant his arms over his knees, "... Okay, here's what I think. Saying 'complacent', maybe that's a bad word. More... 'settled'? You got settled. The job, the people... Rob... all of that. You got settled, then you got uproot--... actually, no. You're still... planted? Does that work? Fun with metaphors. Anyway. Say, everything else got uprooted and now they're gonna build a mall there. You see what I'm saying?... Actually, I'm not sure _I_ see what I'm saying, but--"

"No, I do get it, Jon. I get it. It's nothing different than what you said to begin with. It's... it's not even just Rob. Sam, Jason... they've all... _been there_. You, the other week, calling me Senior New Correspondent. That's not right, there's Jason--... oh. There's Sam--... oh. Maybe I am the--... the, the last tree in the carpark, or... whatever it was you were just trying to say."

"There's still Aasif, there's still Wya--"

"I know, Jon. Jon, _I know_. It's just--"

"It's just that they're still stickin' around, is that it?"

"... That sounds bad, doesn't it?"

"Maybe. You know who else is still around?"

John didn't reply to that, but looked up with the question in his eyes.

"You're still around. I'm still around. Neither of us are goin' anywhere, right?"

The sentiment was true, but John couldn't quite help detecting something almost _possessive_ about that question, something he hadn't expected to pick up. He didn't know if it was his imagination telling him that Jon's stare seemed particularly deep all of a sudden, but was well-versed in ignoring such things.

"... Y-... yeah."

"Okay?" Jon picked himself up, standing once more. He looked down at John, keeping that gaze for just a _moment_ \--... then went to retrieve his coat from the chair he'd left it against. "You've got a podcast recording tomorrow, haven't you? You should probably get some sleep. Talk to your guy there, what was it... Andy, right? He probably knows you better than I ever could." He pulled the jacket on over his shoulders, "A problem shared is a problem halved. Maybe if you tell two people it gets quartered, I dunno."

"... I don't think he'd understand..."

"Try him. You never know. I'll let myself out."

His change in subject was so abrupt that John almost didn't catch it, looking up just as Jon walked under the arch that led to the main hallway area. "--... Jon?"

He leant back through. "Yes?"

Always the awkward part. "... Um... thanks...? For trying to help. Thank you, Jon."

Jon simply nodded, "If you can talk about it, then maybe we can work it out. Who knows. Night, John."

"... Night."

John knew it would have been the polite thing to get up and show Jon out, but it wasn't a few seconds before he heard the opening and closing of the front door. He stayed in that seat for a few minutes longer, leaning forward again and _thinking_. Thinking about the things that Jon had said. Thinking through the arguments and the conclusions, the points that seemed obvious and those few that, when mentioned, felt like conscious thought had shifted on its axis just _slightly_.

More than anything, one thought stood out in John's mind long after Jon had left and long after John first lay in his bed, tired and shutting down but unable to sleep; over and over, his thoughts looped around one argument alone.

 _If you couldn't move on, didn't that make you stuck?_

 _Stuck._

 _Completely stuck._

John took his phone to bed, holding it to his ear as he lay with his eyes closed. The dial tone. The swift sound of the other end being picked up. John still lay there, saying nothing. It was late, nobody should strictly be tending to their phone in such an avid fashion at this time of night, surely...?

" _John! John, you okay? I was calling you earlier..._ "

"... Yeah, I know. Sorry about that. There was some kind of... interference, I guess."

" _What happened?_ "

John rested his arm across his forehead, "Don't really know, to be honest. Since I got back, I just wasn't getting any reception... I just got a flood of messages come in. Maybe the network went down."

" _Maybe. Are you okay, though? You sound real tired..._ "

"I am tired."

" _... Do you want me to call back in the morning?_ "

"I'm recording the podcast."

" _The afternoon, then?_ " John marvelled at Rob's capacity to ignore sharpness of tone when he wanted to. At the same time, he didn't want Rob to respond to it, either. He _was_ tired, but more than that, talking with Jon had left him mentally exhausted. Speaking to Rob so soon afterwards just felt strange, _detached_ somehow. He didn't want Rob to take issue with his suddenly-brusque attitude and he didn't want to argue. He didn't want to say any of the thoughts running through his mind and he didn't feel he had the strength to try to hide anything he wanted to keep hidden--... but he knew what Rob was like; so late into the night, Rob wouldn't want to argue, either. He'd put up with the conversation so as to hide the problem, he'd suggest other times in the hope of _better_ times. He'd put up with any small manifestation of John's temper because he hoped it wouldn't last and he'd smile, on their next meeting, like these conversations had never happened.

"Sure. That'd work."

" _Well... okay then, if you're sure. Get some rest._ "

"Will do."

" _Night, John...!_ "

"Goodnight, Rob."

" _I lo--_ "

John had found his finger pressing the button before he realised that Rob hadn't finished speaking, his tired mind taking any cue for the conversation to end. He realised what he'd done a few moments too late, then staring at his phone to see if Rob would attempt any kind of reconnection. The display dimmed to darkness and stayed so for as long as John watched it. Perhaps that could be blamed on interference, too?

Knowing that this wouldn't be mentioned come the following afternoon, John pushed his phone across on the bedside cabinet and rolled over in his blankets, hoping to get some snatched gift of sleep.

****

Called into Jon's office fairly early on in the working day, John couldn't help but feel some kind of misgiving. He wasn't sure if his mood had particularly improved, but then, he didn't think it had got much worse over the last couple of days, either. Scripts had been finished and segments had been filmed, he'd made Jon giggle to the point that they couldn't look at each other on the Tuesday shoot and, in those moments, it felt like nothing had been lost. Sometimes, there was nothing better in life than just being able to make another man giggle helplessly on national - international, even - television. John had gone home with a smile that night.

Walking to Jon's office, John kept an eye on the interns he passed in the corridors. Were they purposefully avoiding him, or did they always walk like that? The next one he came across got a smile and a _good morning--!_ and the gesture was returned, but John was quite sure that he hadn't imagined that faint look of surprise beforehand. As he approached the destination corridor, John wondered if he should try that with more people he came across; nothing wrong with being polite, and in the light of current events it _was_ at least interesting to see their reactions. Had he really become such a monster? That thought seemed quite sad.

He lingered outside of Jon's office for a minute or two before calling up the courage to knock. No matter what the circumstance, he had still been called to the boss' office. Depending on unknown factors, this could either be particularly good or rather bad and John didn't feel himself versed enough in office life to have experienced the difference. He could only imagine what Jon had called him for, and his mind was never very good at coming up with positive suggestions.

Nonetheless, the one thought strongest in John's mind was that, if nothing else, Jon was an _ally_. There was this problem, this changing _thing_ that John still felt trapped by, but perhaps it _had_ helped to talk to Jon about it. It was easy to be sceptical, but he supposed that, out of everybody, Jon _would_ be the one to have most experience when it came to correspondents deciding to move on. Did that make this any easier? Perhaps knowing that made it easier to be sympathetic, but John wasn't used to such things and, if this was anything to go by, wasn't sure he _wanted_ to become used to such things. Still, he _was_ the Senior Correspondent, now. (But how much did that mean, in the world of fake news? Fake titles for fake correspondents.)

Taking a deep breath, John rapped his fist against the door. A second or two of silence before Jon's voice, "Come in--!"

(He didn't sound angry or annoyed, at least from that. John opened the door and stepped inside.)

"You wanted to see me?"

"Ah, John, hello, yes. Sit down, sit down."

John did so. "... Is this a good you-wanted-to-see-me or a bad you-wanted-to-see-me? Just so I know."

"It's a wondering-how-you're-getting-on wanting-to-see-you, if you want to put it like that. I mean, I _could_ have come to see you in your office again, but..." He trailed off, but the point was obvious. John's office was no longer as private for two people as it once had been, after all.

"... I see."

Sat behind his desk and threading a pen between his fingers, Jon shrugged lightly. "So? Tell me how you are."

"How I am...? ...In... in what way, exactly...?" (Especially since Jon had been to John's apartment, the office seemed a rather stilted place for such interaction.)

"... Did you speak to Andy, over the weekend?"

"... Not really. I mean, we did the podcast. It's not--... it's not that easy though, Jon. We're in recording studios, we have producers making sure everything's running smoothly, it's not exactly the time to tell him I'd like to speak to him _seriously_..."

"So call him another time, then. Or email. That's your homework now, John; I want you to tell somebody else how you're feeling."

John frowned, not entirely sure where this suddenly rather authoritative command had come from. "I'd--... I'd really rather not, to be quite honest..."

"I'll take it as read you didn't talk to Rob, then."

"... No. No, I didn't."

Jon looked down at his pen, tapping it against the desk before looking up at John. He maintained this determined expression for a few moments before that air seemed to fall away; he let the pen drop against the desk and leant back in his chair, swinging back and forth in half-duration.

"What happens at The Daily Show stays at The Daily Show, huh?"

"I'm... not sure I follow..."

Jon stilled his chair with one foot, then getting up and walking to the other side of the desk. He leant against the edge, stood maybe a foot away from where John sat and looked up at him, the uncertainty clear on his face. Jon sighed, as if deflating. "I've been thinkin' about this a lot over the weekend, with you and Rob and everything. Thinking about what it was like in the past. Trying to remember what we did. As I said before, I've... I've seen a lot of correspondents come and go, John." Jon reached over his desk to pick up the pen again, rolling it against the desk with one finger. "I thought about it, and thought about it, and thought, maybe I realised something. Not that I wanted to freak you out calling you over here all quickly or anything, but... you know, sudden epiphanies, maybe we'd get somewhere if you went with it, I don't know."

John wasn't sure he'd ever seen Jon so determined. "You really want to iron this out, don't you?"

Jon propelled the pen a little too hard, sending it rolling off the edge of the table. He looked back towards John, "... I just want to... make you comfortable here again, I guess."

"I don't know if exclaiming sudden epiphany at me is the right way to go about that."

"Maybe not. Okay, so... I got thinking about it. I got talking to Stephen about it. I--"

"Wait, wait. Jon. You were talking about this with Stephen...?"

"He can be pretty perceptive when he wants to be. So we got talking about it--" (Nothing in Jon's reaction seemed to imply that he thought that this had been the wrong path of action; John supposed it inevitable, the two of them moving as one object, but couldn't help but tense in his seat to think that any of what they'd spoken of previously would have been repeated to another, even if that person _was_ Stephen Colbert. Maybe even especially _because_ that person was Stephen Colbert.) "-- and I realised. There's... never really been a problem like this before."

John stared at Jon for a few seconds. "That's... not helpful."

That reaction _did_ seem to cause Jon to pause, "... I know. Sometimes you just notice patterns in things, though. This time, we got Riggle leaving, got Sam and Jason leaving. Before all of this, Bakkedahl left. Helms and Corddry."

"... Right...?"

"You did know about those two, didn't you?"

"I... heard things."

"Okay." Jon tapped his fingers against the desk, looking down momentarily before looking back up to John. "You don't... wish that Riggle had taken you with him, do you?"

John frowned, "... Taken me with him...? What for?"

"It just seemed to me and Stephen that it was like--... I told you before about the problems of pairing off correspondents for office space, didn't I? Putting people together does seem to often end with losing them both in the end. If I'd thought about it any beforehand, I might have worried for us losing you, too...! But, you want to stay. I'm happy you want to stay."

"You thought I might have wanted to leave with him, is that what you mean?"

Leaving this question hanging in the air, Jon went back to the other side of the desk, taking the long way round so as to retrieve his fallen pen. He sat back against the chair and leant his hands against his stomach, "... The last time anything like this happened, I guess, was when Steve Carell left. It wasn't _exactly_ the same, but... him and Stephen were office buddies, too. I don't know if you'd say he took it _hard_ when Steve left, but he took it more than he thought he might, maybe. ...And then we had the Report..."

"You managed to keep him occupied, in other words."

Jon leant his head on the tips of his fingers, as if realising that this epiphany hadn't brought about quite the revolutionary line of thinking he thought it could have done. "... Yeah."

"Do _I_ get my own series?"

"Do you want one?"

John wasn't sure if Jon was actually being serious, or humouring him just to see where the suggestion took them. John stared at Jon for what he knew was just a little longer than necessary, before smiling ruefully.

"I think I'll wait a couple of years before I choose to take you seriously, Stewart."

"I see. Remind me when the couple's up. Should have come up with something decent for you by then."

If Jon was willing to entertain the thought that far, John thought that it didn't hurt to play along. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were trying to get rid of me." John didn't react to the momentary flicker of _something_ this seemed to cause in Jon's expression.

"Like the Report managed to get rid of Stephen?" (Now _there_ was a loaded question. John suddenly realised that he had no idea where this conversation was leading.)

There was a heaviness there, but not like how John was used to, not coming from Jon. He'd seen Jon determined but now, in that instant, he almost seemed _challenging_. For as long as John had been working on the show, he - and all of the other correspondents - had been used to the necessary distance between their place and _Stephen's_ place. Nobody would have argued that Jon wasn't a fair and kind man to work beneath, but Stephen was something above and beyond all of that. There lay something secret that the average correspondent couldn't hope to understand; that was the general consensus between them. ( _Them_. The 'them' that they had been. Playing gossip and rumour between writing and recording.)

Unsure of quite how to react to that (so much for humouring him), John picked his words carefully. "... I don't think you could say, Jon, that the Report exactly... got _rid_ of Stephen, now did it...?"

This only caused a light smile, "My point exactly, John."

 _Your move._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feeling all the more separate to Rob, John falls into arguably bad habits.

" _... Really? Damn. Bad timing, huh._ "

"Sorry I didn't tell you earlier, just... it was a pretty late booking. I mean, if I'd known even yesterday then I could have said something, but--"

" _No no man, it's good, I get it. Just sucks for you though, having to go out of your way like that..._ "

"Yeah, I know. Just enough out of the way to be a bother, but not quite enough to be impossible."

John kept his voice even, responding to the expected tone in Rob's voice with what he hoped was something approximating the appropriate manner. A situation like this was always annoying, wasn't it? Things planned, things that got in the way, hopes dashed... it had been easy to hear the disappointment in Rob's voice, but that wasn't an emotion directed towards John as much as it was the situation in general. The situation that couldn't be helped, _things_ that couldn't be helped... sometimes, those things just happened.

" _Isn't that always the way? Well, I hope it goes well for you, anyway. Sure you got enough jokes to tide you through? Don't need me to come out there and keep an eye on you, do you?_ "

"I daresay I'll be fine, Rob. Don't you have a sitcom to be filming?"

" _Hell, they can't do jack shit if I'm not around, can they? I can say it was a family emergency or something, what can they do? They don't need to know my boyfriend just needed his hand held!_ "

"I'm glad to see you're still in possession of that keen sense of responsibility, Rob. They'll thank you for that."

" _Come on, I'm kidding, I'm kidding. We're totally full up with filming blocks and edit suites and retakes and whatever the hell else we got around here. Come on though, can't you just try haggling with them one more time? Like I said, family emergency, always works. If they're gonna make an awkward call on you, you're entirely in your right to make it awkward right back at them!_ "

"It's usually a good idea not to annoy people who might employ you, though. If I don't call back now, they might never call back in the future, you know what it's like."

A reasonable line of argument. A reasonable line of thought. Reason for the unreasonable situation. John stood by the cabinet, his hand pressed flat against the dark wood and fingers dragging friction against the smooth surface. He brought the hand that wasn't holding the phone into a clenched fist for a moment, then spreading his fingers out again. Rob would understand, wouldn't he? He was quick with the alternative suggestions but in the end, they both knew what the truth of the matter was. Rob just needed to be calmed down into seeing sense. _Taming the wild Riggle_. (John was used to that.)

" _Yeah, yeah. I'm just pissed off for you, that's all. We really gotta sync our free time sometime, yeah? I miss you, John. You know that._ "

"... I miss you, too."

" _Good to hear--! I mean, it'd be better if we didn't have to miss each other, but I guess that's our lot at the moment. When's your next filming break, again?_ "

"Same as it was the last time you asked, not for a couple of weeks."

" _Can't you get Jon to squeeze you out a day or two?_ "

"That's not really fair on him now, is it?"

" _And this isn't fair on us--!_ "

John could hear the exasperation in Rob's voice. He didn't want to benefit that with a reply, and so stayed silent long enough for Rob to realise his tactic. Because this _wasn't_ fair on them, John knew that more than anything else, but knew that they'd put up with it. Knew that they'd endure. Knew that if they could stay in their separate places for just a little longer, then that would make the eventual meeting afterward all the sweeter. And it would be, wouldn't it...? They would meet up again, like there had never been these troubled times. Like nothing had stood in the way. Like everything was as it was before and they would meet after and again and again and this, as it was, would all be forgotten. John kept that silence, feeling that small sense of accomplishment when Rob spoke again.

" _Well, just gotta be patient sometimes, I guess. Looks like this is our time. Given any more thought as to what you want to do during that break?_ "

"... Not really. I've been so busy here it's hard to think about anything, to be honest."

" _Damn. Okay. Well, just think about it if you get the chance, we should really go someplace nice or something. Anything you wanna do, that's fine by me. Just let me know. I'm really in the mood to spoil you right now, you should take advantage of that!_ "

"I'll keep it in mind. Your treat?"

" _My treat. Oh hey, I gotta go now, real quick. Thanks for keeping me up to date though, coulda been difficult otherwise. Well, I'll see you when I see you, I guess?_ "

"Definitely. ...Love you." ( _Awkward._ )

" _Love you too, man._ " (He didn't seem to notice. That sentiment always sounded better when it came from him.) " _Seeya._ "

John made sure to let Rob have the last word now, just in case. He heard the line die, bringing the phone back down and looking over the handset. He sighed, putting it on the sidecabinet and going back to the sofa, where Jon sat. The television was on, but not loud. Any distraction it had provided had only been an excuse to pretend that Jon hadn't been watching John hawkishly throughout that phone call; now it was over, Jon grabbed the remote and hit mute, watching as John sat down on the other end of the sofa. He continued to watch as the silence fell between them, but John didn't seem to be taking the bait; he stared at the half-empty mug of tea he'd left before the phone call, tugging a lock of hair with two fingers.

"You okay?"

"... Yeah. I'm just--... I'm not sure I've ever lied _quite_ so blatantly before in my life. Or if I have, it's not coming to mind and in which case, I'm sure it's due to things not turning out well in the end. Either way, it's not exactly endearing me towards the situation."

Jon shrugged, "You were the one called me over in the first place, remember."

"... I know."

He knew. They both knew. Jon sighed gently, netting his fingers together. "... Look, I'm sorry, okay? I didn't--... I didn't think. I just didn't. If that hurt you, I'm sorry. Really. I just thought that Stephen might be able to come up with something, that's all... he's good at that kinda thing, still waters run deep and everything. He's better at this than I am. Hell, I don't know if we wouldn't be better off with him on this sofa right now, talking to you. I'm just shooting in the dark, here. ...You really didn't have to cancel on Rob, though. I'm... kinda worried about that."

"You think he's going to turn up on my doorstep?"

"I think, it's not helping putting distance between you and him like this. Yeah, he's not the kind of person likely to suspect anything, but that doesn't negate the fact you did this in the first place, John. I don't... get you, I guess. You gonna do this again? If you start avoiding him too much, he's gonna start to suspect something."

John kept his voice calm, "And what is there to suspect, Jon?"

"Avoiding him is gonna seem pretty suspicious no matter what, don't you think? I don't know what you're thinking."

"Maybe that's for the best."

Jon narrowed his eyes, his tone containing an incredulous note. "Is this all about the Stephen thing?"

Again, here was a dangerous question. Anything dealing with Stephen was generally dangerous, but being asked directly like that was even moreso. If nothing else, it was hard to deny; the more that John had considered the thought of Jon reporting back to Stephen, the more displeased with the idea he felt. It was an easy mistake for Jon to make and he understood why Jon had made it, but none of that cancelled out the principle of confidentiality John had thought Jon in possession of. What was that he'd said, _what happens at The Daily Show..._?

And yet, it wasn't that at all. That was an excuse, a reason to let Jon know his displeasure, but it wasn't that at all.

The basic fact of the matter was that time was now passing. Winter had moved firmly into spring and it wouldn't be too long until even summer became the newest threat. Was that too long to still feel displaced, too long to still be confused? John didn't know. Perhaps it wasn't long enough at all, but the new correspondents - plural - seemed to be fitting in quite nicely and John even felt that he was able to put up a good face for them, though none of this stopped the rumours; in actual fact, it only seemed to exacerbate them. Aasif and Wyatt didn't help, doing their bit to prolong the gossip, but John wouldn't have expected anything else from them; who was to suspect that the truth of the matter was that Jon Stewart had been visiting John Oliver's apartment with increasing frequency as the days went by? After hours and out of sight, it really seemed to have gone by unnoticed. Either that, or Jon's business was held in such genuinely high regard that nobody wanted to question it, and if it _was_ that? John wouldn't have been surprised.

"... Jon... I keep hearing... whispers, some might say. Things that certain new correspondents seem to like to keep asking me about."

Appearing willing to entertain John his mood for the time being, Jon leant back into the curve of the sofa and leant his head against one curled fist. "I wouldn't let that bother you."

"Oh, no, it's not bothering me, don't worry. It just... it just makes me curious, that's all."

"What have you been hearing?"

(This generally depended on who you asked.)

"I do seem to be hearing it more and more often, these days... it's not exactly _dissent_ as per se, but... some kind of uncertainty does seem to be filtering down, I have to admit."

"Oh?"

"You don't... keep favourites, do you Jon...?"

Asking a question like that was only going to spur one answer, though. John knew it without Jon having to confirm it in the slightest, but knew that the expected answer also left him open for accusation.

"... This _is_ about Stephen, isn't it?"

 _It's not that._

 _It's not that at all._

****

There came a point, somewhere deep in the middle of the night, where everything almost made sense. _Almost_.

Nights were so busy, though. Between the press of a none-too-gentle touch and the sharp intake of breath that came from having held it far too long, it was hard to pinpoint that exact moment. But it was there, and if they were awake to observe it, John usually noticed it. He wasn't sure if Jon did, though. Wasn't sure if Jon was even aware of such a thing. Perhaps, John wondered, this was the nature of the truth that Jon, in his concern, had sought. Fragments that didn't make sense and moods that didn't go anywhere, accusations that were false and missed points that were true. It was hard to understand somebody else, wasn't it? John had always found this. It hadn't really been until Rob that anybody in his life had tried to seriously contest this and while perhaps this hadn't gone entirely to plan, Rob still pushed for that understanding. And sometimes, in a moment of vulnerability, John would close his eyes while in Rob's arms, " _I don't deserve you._ "

As a valid point of reference, it was useless. Naturally, Rob would never believe or support a comment like that. It was useless to even try to convince him, but sometimes it felt so true that it hurt.

Those nights that Jon spent at John's apartment were amongst those times. John wasn't really sure what you had to do to deserve a person, was that even a measurement that could be quantified? Did the manner of companionship really bestow upon oneself some sense of entitlement? He'd never been too sure on that, but was fairly sure that _not deserving_ came from several easy sources. Pain was a good measure of this. _Does it hurt?_... _Yes_. In that pause lay something true. _Does it hurt?... No. ...I don't care_. There was where the problem lay. A _problem_. (There were so many.)

Moments of clarity were few and far between, but painfully bright when they chose to establish themselves. And John _knew_ that the problem - that original problem - was so basic and open he wasn't even sure he and Jon hadn't discussed it at length already, but human nature did tend to overanalyse and perhaps the point had been lost, somewhere along the way. Jon spoke of watching correspondents move on, and it struck John as being rather like a teacher, watching his students graduate. Pride and sadness mixing into one. Along those lines, John wasn't sure that this wasn't the first relatively stable environment he'd been in since those times - and the life of a stand-up comedian made this inevitable, but it didn't stop him missing it. Edinburgh was the closest. For that month, they were all together; no lonely gigs in godforsaken theatres in the back-end of the country, no long nights spent driving to the next destination, because it was all contained in that one city that welcomed them all. For a month, they were together and then it was over, a year until the next one, _better start writing the next show_. That was just how things were. And then, The Daily Show. Writers and performers meeting every day, coming together to create something transient. But it continued. Every day was another gone, but another would follow, and another, and another. And after years of stand-up and radio and not quite fitting in on panel shows, the mixture of spontaneity and regularity was quite potent. Every day, they created something new. Every day, through the same routine with the same people in the same place, something different would appear. John had found himself growing used to this with an almost frightening speed.

It was stable and it was comfortable and Rob only represented the most obvious and visible aspects of that. It was him, but it wasn't _only_ him. He was gone but more than that, the equilibrium had been broken and there, _there_ , there was where the problem lay, basic and obvious.

All you could do with a broken atmosphere was to try to re-establish it into something new. That seemed obvious, but John had been so used to it, so deliciously used to it that he'd barely even thought to consider what would happen were it to change. His greatest fear, in that respect, was the ending of his own time at The Daily Show. He spent so much time pushing those thoughts away that he hadn't ever thought to consider what might be different were Sam to leave, were Jason to leave, were _Rob_ to leave... everything was the same as it always was and nothing would change that dramatically, would it...?

( _Ah, foolish assumptions._ )

To begin with, comments and jibes that John was Jon's favourite had seemed amusing, in a slightly embarrassing way. John would wonder, _how has it got to this already...?_ He'd been a fan far longer than he'd been involved and like that, it seemed unlikely. Adding in Stephen to the mix and it was just impossible, but everybody acknowledged that. Time passed and opinion seemed to change; perhaps it was impossible in theory, but The Daily Show and The Colbert Report were two separate things, would anybody have begrudged Jon having favourites across the two? Jon was fond of all of the correspondents, John knew this. Was he fond _er_ of some - of _him_ \- than others? His self-confidence wouldn't really let him believe such a thing, even through Jon's open displays of concern and interest. ( _He'd do that for anybody though, wouldn't he?_ )

Then, however, idea combined with idea. He was stuck, but Jon was _constant_. He wasn't planning on going anywhere and neither was Jon and there, in that small breadth of two people, perhaps lay an element of stability. Perhaps it was no bad thing to have favourites. Perhaps it was better to _be_ a favourite. Perhaps resting focus on Jon made it easier to ignore the shifting sands beyond. That made sense, didn't it?

( _The world was not always sensible._ )

One time afterward, John had fallen neatly to the pillows and stared up at the ceiling. He knew that Jon watched him, but said nothing. He knew that a hundred questions threatened to fall from Jon's exhausted tongue, but that he wouldn't ask any of them. Maybe they'd never know the questions, let alone the answers. Despite that, John would speak.

" _... Do you think I should leave Rob...?_ "

He had looked at Jon then, glancing across to an open expression of warning.

" _... No._ "

" _... Good. Neither do I._ "

(It wasn't fair, though.)

For a moment, John had entertained that as a theoretical possibility. Rob was now something 'other' and 'beyond' and perhaps there was a pain there, driving shards between them. But to do that would be to let Rob go entirely, sever the connection and render past worth meaningless. And John felt that he loved Rob, and so wasn't prepared to do such a thing. This didn't prevent him raising the question to Jon, though.

Perhaps, John wondered, he _was_ Jon's favourite. If he was or if he wasn't, was it really any of his business? If so, it was flattering. If not, he was still a valued correspondent. Who placed any stock in such childish things as 'favourites'?... And Jon would talk of past correspondents, and John would listen. And he missed them. This was understandable. He missed them all and like that, somehow, John felt that they had a small converging point. But then was Stephen, who divided that point neatly. For all that John saw Jon as having lost, he had still kept that most precious to him and kept it close by. For all those who had gone, there was still Stephen.

( _You still have him._ )

It wasn't jealousy. Or at least, if it was, it was the opposite to that which anybody might have expected; for those gossiping on the topic of Jon's favourites, perhaps it was understandable that John might resent Stephen for having got there first, or other similar childish desires. John knew it wasn't that. More than Stephen having Jon, it was _Jon having Stephen_. More than any of the personalities involved, it was the basic fact of _being able to keep something_. John refused to look beyond Rob, but that distance seemed to grow and grow without John knowing how to do anything about it.

He and Jon shared that same pain of loss and therefore some qualifier of 'favourite' became almost justified, but John couldn't put aside the fact that that basic pain was so fundamentally different. That, he supposed, was where the anger came from.

He wasn't an angry person, on the whole. More his style was quiet frustration and sustained pessimism, and such things had served him well. But sometimes, _sometimes_ , he could be angry. Jon tried to draw this from him. Draw it into the open, calm him down. John understood the logic but was frightened by the depths his thoughts would roam if he allowed them reckless freedom.

( _You still have him--!_ )

" _... You--... don't need to do this, Jon. It's not--... I'm not--... you don't need to lower yourself just because of me._ "

" _Who said I was lowering myself...?_ "

This was a kind of confidence that John couldn't understand. Rob had been similar, though the legitimacy of the relationship had taken away some of the disgust. He enjoyed it, with Rob. He enjoyed it, when he let himself. With Jon he was too guarded and basic human pleasure wasn't the point of this anyway. Somewhere between the dissatisfaction and eventual relief, this was another branch of Jon's concern. John might almost have wondered when exactly he'd let himself wander into the territory of the pity-fuck if he believed Jon capable of such a thing, but didn't, and so didn't. Reducing it down to pity or sympathy seemed to miss out so much and ignore so many things John felt unique to Jon.

(It still wasn't fair.)

(It wasn't fair and _none_ of this was fair. It wasn't fair, and every second spent made this fall further into the realms of the unforgivable.)

John would feel fingers press against the curve of his shoulder and shift around behind his neck, pressing and stroking and trying to find some element of kindness there. He would lean in closer as Jon seemed to bid him to and in the occasional moment of clarity that one word would echo, _unforgivable_.

 _This is unforgivable._

(And John would smile.)

****

That couple of weeks that John had mentioned to Rob led themselves into their own routine. John would wake in the morning to an otherwise empty bed, staggering through the mundane habits of the morning shower, getting dressed while the toast toasted, crunching that down as he sat on the sofa and checked for emails that he knew wouldn't arrive. The journey to work was the same as it always was and he would arrive usually a short amount of time before most of the rest of them did, but that was just his habit. He'd go to his office first, checking again for any emails that might have taken their time during the morning commute; he'd leave before he was joined and smile at the others as the working day began. It didn't take long to get into the swing of things; they had news to filter, video to edit, scripts to start and write and edit and finalise. Some days brought an out-of-office shoot. The group of correspondents set out to capture the news and they would wander the streets for willing - or unwilling - opinion, regrouping and comparing notes and smiling and laughing together.

(In those moments, it was easy to forget.)

The time before the daily record would draw close, and sometimes Jon would call John to his office again. Never for long. Always the same question and always with the same reply; Jon had stopped asking further and John had stopped the counter-productive measure of trying not to be quite so damn obvious. (Interns smiled at him.) Sometimes it wasn't even at the office - walking across opposite sides of the open workspace, Jon would throw a harried and light concern in John's direction; John would catch and deflect it and Aasif would hear and smirk and say something, something that John would rebuke or deny or ignore.

(All in good spirits.)

It was routine. It was normal. _It was how things were_. Jon expressed concern because that was what he always did, to anybody. John averted direct attention, because that was just how he was. Aasif teased and Wyatt backed him up on that because they knew that John didn't mind, not _really_ \- or at least, if he _did_ , not enough to make an issue of it. If he really held objection then they'd stop, they all knew that. Newer correspondents looked to the senior correspondents and John wondered how much sway the pecking order really held. Below Jon, were they not all equal?

Returning home left no doubt in mind as to the answer of that question. He went to work, he'd come home. He'd eat his evening meal and sometimes find a message from Rob on his answering machine. He'd call back. They'd talk. They looked forward to the break upcoming; John had his free time and Rob had managed to eke out a few days where most of the work would be fielded by those of a more technical nature. Naturally, he'd look over the finished edit and deem it worthy (or not), but for those few days, they were heading off into the mountains. Rob had got some idea stuck in his head about a cabin somewhere, the thought of going off together on their own - they hadn't been able to spend much time together of recent, so what was better than _only_ spending time together? Then came all the inevitable suggestions of evenings spent in front of log fires and what would happen _after_ and John would entertain Rob his lewd proposals, unable to hide a laugh when those thoughts got too outlandish, too ridiculous. It felt natural; the warmth in Rob's voice, the obvious pride he took from having been able to make John laugh. And John _liked_ to laugh, when Rob said things like that. Said other things, said whatever. It felt free and it felt easy

and it was all a lie, but he had got good at pretending.

Often, Jon would arrive as John conducted his phone calls. John would let him in quietly, discounting anything heard on the other end as being Rob's imagination. No, that wasn't the door, why would it have been? Oh, those people in the apartment below, being noisy again. Of course. Of course.

John would wind the conversation to a close, giving nothing away. Jon would ask how Rob was and John would be vague in his answer, knowing Jon not particularly after the specifics. Empty words filled the silence because that was not what these visits were about and they both knew it, stepping closer and closer towards the inevitable. They didn't talk about it at work, it wasn't implied to their co-workers, it wasn't discussed or mused upon but it happened, it always _happened_. Because it happened, John felt himself no longer required to answer Jon's questions in the office; all things led to _this_ , raw and truthful. How was Rob? It didn't matter. He was completely separate to this.

Once the working week of The Daily Show was over, John set his sights towards recording The Bugle; that, in many ways, was easier. The contractual communication between he and Andy gave each other the base peace of mind that nothing terrible had happened during the course of the week inbetween, and John knew that Andy would only worry if he made any specific demand to want to talk. Andy didn't suspect because there was nothing _to_ suspect; he, like Rob, was completely separate to any of the other situations.

 _Completely separate_.

The weeks fragmented into days, hours, minutes, seconds. Sometimes John's time was demanded by others, but that was fine. Rob was one thing. Andy was another. Jon another. His job in general. Time alone. It all divided neatly into these standard allocations of time and duty. The way he laughed with the other correspondents was different to how Rob made him laugh, to how Andy made him laugh. Silence in an empty apartment was so very different to silence when Jon was on the sofa. Andy didn't need to know of the problems with Rob or concerns of The Daily Show, because distance gave them that excuse. Rob didn't need to know of the disturbances left in his wake because he'd chosen to leave in the first place, and it wasn't fair to shackle him with the issues of his old workplace. They all slotted nicely into order of relevance, and that which was on a need-to-know basis was left known only if it was needed, and need was a very specific emotion. Who, John wondered, would benefit from such knowledge? Unless you were involved, simply, you didn't have to know.

This 'need' now fell presently only to two people. To him, and to Jon. There, it _was_ need. _Oh_ , it was need. There, where separation mixed and muddled and made everything messy, was a knowledge and a need and something that wasn't _quite_ like anything else. Because they were working on wide principles and it was terrible and it was unforgivable but that didn't _matter_ , because it was so contained in the present moment - which was the only moment it existed in - that outside reference seemed only strange.

Like every separate element, it became a habit in itself. It could be separated, and so John _would_ separate it.

Then he'd see the look in Jon's eyes and think that he wasn't separating this at all.

He didn't want to ask.

( _Not long until the break, now._ )


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, things go too far and strange things become habit before you realise. John is frustrated to realise that this contemplation usually only follows on after the fact.

That basic truth of need, when combined with the continued necessary proximity and the knowledge of secrets between them, turned into quite a heady mix. There, in John's bedroom, that abstract concept turned to abstract physical, instead. The presence of touch and presence itself didn't do anything to make it any less inexplicable.

John's bedroom, as it was, might have struck an observer as being relatively sparse. It held the necessary furniture, but--... that seemed to sum up the room in general; it had what was _necessary_. There was the bed and a bedside cabinet, a chest of drawers by the door and an inset wardrobe with a mirror on the doors that took up the short side of the room. (Perhaps even John's life, as he tried to manage it, held only what was necessary.)

There was an overhead light, but they didn't touch that. There was a small pushbutton lamp on the bedside cabinet, but they didn't need it. Light brought vision brought reminder of _what they were doing_ and in those moments, neither of them wanted that. Such things were impossible to escape, however; John's bedroom looked out to the street below and there you couldn't escape it, light streaming in all hours of the day or night. John drew the curtains but, thin as they were, that only did so much. Blocking out the harsh glare, it still left an illuminated square to the side of the room. Where the curtains didn't quite meet in the middle still left a muted shaft of light that threw streetlight discolour across the floor and cut across the bed and sometimes Jon would be pressed against the pillows where that light met the headboard, and John made a purpose of not looking. Whatever he saw there, he didn't _want_ to see.

(What he saw there was _Jon_.)

The first time he'd kissed Jon - and it had been that way round - John hadn't known what to think. Hadn't known what to make of any of this. Had wondered on circumstance and suspected something a little more than mere comfort, though only a _little_. A moment of weakness and _what if_ and John had barely expected himself to follow through on the possibilities of that thought, let alone Jon to reciprocate, to stand there and nod just once and _understand_. And then this. _This_. This that Jon offered, but only because he thought John was strong enough to know what accepting it meant. And John wondered. Wondered on those who had left, on those who had gone. Neither he nor Jon were going anywhere, but did that give this reason? Did that give this any kind of excuse? John might even have thought it a trap that they both fell into, were he not simply incapable of considering Jon able to fall for such a thing to begin with. Correspondents left and sometimes, maybe, it was painful. Did that cause this? Was this a pain that Jon always carried, that John had just happened to knock off-kilter?

(John thought of Stephen, and couldn't believe that for a moment.)

It would happen over and over again. Perhaps, John thought, it would even happen with him, someday. At that time, what would Jon do?

At that time, maybe, it wouldn't be any of his business. He'd leave behind who he left behind.

(He'd done it before.)

(He pulled up and pressed closer and knew those thoughts harsh, _too harsh to bear_. He put them from his mind.)

For a moment, the thought of _leaving Jon_ in any capacity felt like too much to bear, even as a theoretical. Not like having left Andy in another country and not like Rob having left the workplace, but _somehow_. Just--... in general. Ever. It changed nothing; he had Rob and Jon had Stephen, but in the cracks where those ends didn't quite meet they had each other, too. This was, for the moment, what filled that gap. This. _This_. Whatever _this_ was.

The first time Jon had kissed him in return, John had been surprised. He'd let it happen but hadn't encouraged it, standing motionless once it was over. _If there was a line, we just crossed it_. Concentrating on the physical, it was easier to forget the depths of the mental processes that seemed to snap at their heels and Jon had pushed him against the wall and pressed lips to his neck, murmuring just beneath his ear.

" _Do whatever you want._ "

At that time, at first, John had been overwhelmed to be presented by such a suggestion. "... _What?_ "

Jon didn't do anything but hold John there, contact and proximity saying as much as needed to be said. His voice was a lazy mumble against John's skin, " _If you wanna get angry, get angry. If you want something else... you know. If you don't want to do anything, that's fine too. You want to forget about Riggle for as long as it takes, you do that. You wanna remember him, you do that instead._ " Pushing John's shoulders to the wall, Jon brought his head back to be able to look at him. He tried to smile through a note of concern, " _Nothing's fine though, it really is. I don't wanna be the bad-touch employer._ "

 _Bit late for that_ , John couldn't help but think. But Jon had looked at him, and he'd looked back, and there were lines flying all over the place; that between employer and employee, between something like mentor and student, that of two men in two different relationships, that of their _own_ relationship that this all threatened to change. And nothing _was_ an option, it really was; John didn't doubt that any option Jon presented was one he was fully prepared to follow through. On either path though, John wasn't sure he could detect what precisely was in it for Jon - he didn't sense the depressing pressure of personal gain, here. This was, still, Jon's concern. The ball was in John's court. What did he want to do?

 _What did he want to do?_

(John was sick of making decisions, not making decisions, wondering either way. He was sick of thinking. Jon was presenting the option _not to think_ and, for being confronted by it, John seized it with what little desperate strength he felt he had remaining.)

He pushed back against Jon and took him into another kiss, letting the uncertain pull of the physical take him away from his thoughts. _There's your answer_. Jon allowed this and allowed himself to be guided out of the room, to the bedroom, to the bed, _further_.

And so did that become another routine.

There had to be routine. Small things that were always the same, small things that could be relied on, small things that _wouldn't change_.

 _There had to be method in this madness._

Each day would go on as normal. Each day would discount this. Each day would lead to this as its ending but it was separate and John wasn't sure he knew where it came from, to think about it. He didn't think about it until Jon asked about it. Didn't feel the negative pull until he remembered. Had less urge to act as Jon had once implied until he appeared again, as if this was conditioned behaviour. (John wasn't sure it wasn't, but it was what Jon thought was best, surely, so...)

He'd lean back against propped-up pillows as Jon lingered between his legs, taking John's erection into his mouth with a practiced ease and lack of hesitation that made John wonder exactly who it was he'd honed that talent with. This thought lasted for the half-second before that movement ripped a low groan from his throat and he hated how obvious such signals were, but was that not the entire point of this? The entire point of anything _like_ this...? And he'd tremble when Jon did that thing with his tongue before pulling away and being slow and _gentle_ and _teasing_ and was this the place for that, really? John would press his foot flat against the mattress and his toes against the bedsheets and _this is awkward_ and _this is embarrassing_ and _you don't need to do this, Jon_ and _you shouldn't be doing this, John_ and it slipped away like an ebbing tide as the muted static grew and he shifted against the pillows as they fell down behind him, as his back pressed against the headboard and his shoulders the edge between that and the wall behind. He pressed fingers that would occasionally jolt with uncontrolled movement against the bed, tried to lift himself up on his hands to something more comfortable, but Jon seemed to take that as sign to move closer and press John back further and he'd look towards the window, wanting to do anything but look down and acknowledge quite what was happening. And he'd shudder when that became _more_ and he'd close his eyes because he couldn't think to do anything else, and it was more and _more_ and _too much_ and _Jon--_

The steady buildup of stimulation having fallen away, John would lie in place as his breath hitched and caught, as he heard Jon move against the mattress. Would feel fingers against his upper arm, that silent sort of signal that wanted to know how far to take this, how far to go, _should we stop?_... John would take a deeper breath and throw himself into a roll that caught Jon beneath him and would kiss him to distract himself, to remind him of the mood he wanted to recapture.

Sometimes, he worked to forget. Sometimes, even that lay forgotten. Everybody had their good days and their bad days and Jon would show up on either; had he the ability of coherent retrospective on the latter, John might have considered his own concern for how much Jon seemed to indulge himself during those times. _Do whatever you want_ , he'd said.

Those were dangerous words. Dangerous words, easy to take advantage of. Sometimes, a bad mood brought a carefree attitude that threw caution to the wind and _fuck it, I will_.

Those times it was Jon against the headboard, with none of the consideration he seemed to take on John's behalf. When you did something so often, or at least with such regularity, it was easy to become complacent and to wonder, just a little, how to make it different. How to push it further. And John would press his face into the curve of Jon's shoulder with this desire hidden in his subconscious, crossing his arms across Jon's chest and pressing his fingers to Jon's skin but not thinking further on any kind of languid touch. John was doing what he wanted and sometimes he just wanted the freedom to be selfish, in a situation where that wouldn't be judged. Through this all, John never felt that Jon judged him for his behaviour and that, perhaps, was part of the problem driving this on in the first place. And maybe Jon would come first, the brutal push of repeated movement bringing about the inability to even _want_ to hold back. In that case, John would use the knowledge of that, his own cause and effect, to spur on his own half-hearted orgasm. (If Jon wasn't playing along, that didn't make it as much fun.)

Sometimes, these situations didn't feel as if they were on the same page. Those encounters brought about the sort of disconnected apathy that John felt only contributed to the problem as a whole. Sometimes, this all felt too personal and intimate and overbearing and the only way to endure it, in the moment, was to detach from it entirely. John thought that Jon probably noticed this, but never commented on it. _Of course_ , John would think, _he wouldn't_.

Other times, however, they were not only on the same page but practically writing it together. Jon would arrive each night with the knowledge of how John had been during their days at the office; had it been a good day? Had it been a bad day? Jon would listen to John's off-handed comments and draw conclusion as to what that meant for the evening. Perhaps there had been some problem on the morning commute, something annoying and small that had nonetheless caused a disturbance. Perhaps a script was being tricky. Perhaps they weren't able to secure those rights in time. Perhaps the office network decided to go down at a bad moment. Perhaps anything, but they both knew that John was not the kind of person to express prolonged anger at these things; maybe they would be mentioned once at work and then lie forgotten by the evening.

Jon asked the same sentiment across variations on the question throughout the day. John wondered if he imagined so many of them directed towards himself, or if he just felt more sensitive for receiving them. It was asked and passed off, because _this is not the time or the place_. And maybe it _had_ been a bad day, and maybe Rob had or hadn't called (depending on which it took to make a bad day worse) and maybe there was nothing wrong with that in itself, but then the evening would wear on and Jon would arrive and he would _ask_ , and it would all come crumbling down in the space where John knew he had the safety to let it crumble.

" _Are you okay?_ "

Sometimes, that was all that it took.

Jon seemed to realise that John got more frustrated than he did angry, trying to pull this out and tame it into something that could calm John down. This wasn't always successful. John would be knelt with one hand on Jon's thigh, pressed up against his hip. The other would be finding obstruction against the headboard, trying to lean against it and tuck his fingers behind it, but the small gap between it and the wall wasn't _quite_ enough; John's hand would hesitate there before going to Jon's shoulder and holding there, using his body to steady himself. Jon would keep one hand on John's own shoulder, pressing and flexing his fingers to some indication of internal feeling. Sometimes, that felt like too tender a gesture and John would make to move Jon's hand, but would always find himself too distracted to really go through with that; Jon, instead, would move that grip to around the back of John's neck, pulling him down, pulling him closer. Leaning down so that John could feel Jon's breath against him. John would close his eyes, trying to block it out.

John tended to prefer it when Jon lay with his chest against the bed, or perhaps on all fours if he had the strength in his limbs to keep himself up; like that, more than anything else, it meant that John didn't have to look Jon in the eye during. While they were like that, the immediate view was of the pillows or, if John turned his face to the side just a little, the blurred-out shape of the bedside cabinet nearby. He could hear Jon's laboured breathing, but he could tune that out. Too aware of himself, he'd try to concentrate on the things that he didn't need to concentrate on rather than the things he'd notice but didn't _want_ to.

Every time this happened was coupled alongside knowledge of the fact that Jon would be gone, come the morning. John barely ever noticed him taking his leave, sometimes being half-aware of movement in the night, sometimes hearing an unsuccessful attempt to mute the sound of the front door closing, too tired to do anything about it. John wondered if he felt more exhausted for this; Jon would show up at work bright and early - or at least, early - as if nothing untoward had happened at all, and John wondered how he managed it. (Thought of Stephen, again.)

(Wondered what Stephen thought of this, if anything.)

(Jon would wonder if John wanted to come to the Report offices of a lunchtime. He didn't.)

John would graze his teeth along Jon's shoulder and as his breath came in barely-suppressed snarls, the urge to bite and _mark_ became strong. By that point, he wasn't usually in the frame of mind to be holding back but afterwards, sometimes, he would wonder; things like that would be noticed, surely? John never saw the results under good enough light to be able to assess the damage. Jon never said anything, never discouraged him from doing so.

On petulant whim, it once became something almost like an aim. Just the once. John kept one arm grappled against Jon's chest as he bit and sucked his way from shoulder to collarbone and upward, leaving marks that even he could see under the imprecise strips of light that invaded the room. In the moment came the heady haze of satisfaction and afterwards, in the morning, concern. Not that anybody would be able to see under the suit and the jacket, but when John came to work that morning and walked past Jon speaking to a group of some of the writers wearing that usual shirt of his _not even trying to hide it_ , he felt a strange sense of juxtaposition that sent him subdued for the rest of the day. Everybody else in the office had their almost-certain conclusion to jump to and John knew that that was Jon's reasonable assumption, but it didn't make knowing the truth any easier to bear.

John had said it what felt like so long ago now, but the point still felt valid; Jon was so _reasonable_. Enough so that, in fact, it felt like it went the other way and almost became unreasonable in itself. John would sit in traffic on the way back from the office and wonder, wonder what kind of person it took to be able to offer that, to _do_ that, to _behave_ like that... he seemed to take all of the negative energy that John created, absorbing it and deflecting it and to consider it in such terms made John feel decidedly uneasy. To say that it felt like they shared a secret - quite a few secrets, now - that the rest of the office couldn't know, John wasn't too sure that this whole situation had made Jon any easier to _know_. Perhaps it had only made them both more distant to one another. What kind of person did it take?... What kind of person--...?

He thought it again on seeing Jon on his doorstep that evening, but didn't say anything. Nonetheless, he couldn't quite shake it from his mind; more and more, John would wonder. If he got the chance, if his mind afforded him a moment of clarity between everything else, he would wonder. He thought it as he stepped over Jon's clothes on his way to the bed, as Jon took him in his arms, as he pushed any revulsion as to the current situation to the back of his mind.

 _What kind of person are you?_

Such a question was, however, really too vague and basic to answer easily and lay all but forgotten in the familiar repetition of the scene that played out, as it always seemed to. Jon was too reasonable to ask anything of this; he lay back when John pushed him, rolled over when John bid him, kept as quiet as possible. There were no names spoken. He'd reach for a pillow and press moans into that rather than overtly make to disturb the stillness of the room, rather than display that reaction as something that John had explicitly caused (though they both knew it). When John bit that could cause a sharp intake of breath, a held moan that faded, but never much more than that. Never even discomfort, let alone outright denial.

 _What kind of person are you, Jon...?_

Rational thought often fell apart in this sort of setting, and the part of John that shattered wanted only to know what it might take to get some kind of reaction. _More. Further. Again. Harder_. Which of those would cause the desired response? He'd try them all. He'd try them as that familiar warmth settled inside him, as any snatches of coherent thought looked down on this all as being nothing more than sickening and painful. Still, the pressure of repetitive friction didn't care for that; the warmth would grow and heat would descend over John's mind, wondering only if it was in any way similar to Jon's own experience. Could it ever be? Could he ever know? He'd press and drag his fingers to Jon's skin, almost clawing at him as his frame of mind grew muted and numb but _desperate_. So close, that point of heat grew and spread and John's movements would grow slower but more definite, exact and specific. Any thought of any question at all was forgotten, now. There. _There--_.

The days grew to a collection of this strange, shared experience, but in the lucid and sober moments that ended each time, John would always silently declare it the last. When his own breath hitched and his body still trembled with the dying afterglow, he would pull away from Jon and lie to the side and not look at him, _this is the last time_.

 _This is the last time._

Jon would slip his arms around John's waist and pull him close, _too gentle, too tender_. Every time, Jon would hold him afterwards. No matter how feral or vicious John had been beforehand, it always ended like this. That only made John more determined, in the brief moments before exhaustion claimed him.

 _I can't let this happen again._

****

Feeling only faintly aware of the world around him, John pulled the blankets around him as he rolled over, sighing deeply as vague perception of light throughout the room told him, gently, that it was the morning. It was the morning and he probably had to wake up, but he was tired, and so--

He sat up quickly; it was the morning?!... He looked to the clock at his bedside: 10.52am. _Shit_. Next to the clock lay his phone; John grabbed it and activated it and saw no messages, no missed calls. That caused a slight pause. In the case of his being this gratuitously late to work - which _never_ happened - it seemed somewhat unexpected that he wouldn't have been contacted in the meantime. Maybe the main phone held answerphone messages?... Perhaps, but it still seemed strange that--...

Looking again at the time on his phone caused a vague glance in the direction of the date section, too. The upper corner of the display told him of the date and, hitting in with a subtle sense of _ohh_ , the day. Saturday. Right. Fine. Was it really Saturday? It didn't feel like a Saturday. Nonetheless, that suggestion had caused the panic to fade, allowed John to recollect properly as rational thought filtered through. Yes, the day previous had most definitely been Friday. There'd been a podcast recording. Rob had phoned. John had phoned Jon, after that. _Ah_.

As he sat and considered these things, John became aware of the bedroom door being slightly ajar (he always closed it before he slept). Became aware of slight sounds from the space beyond; movement, cutlery, _someone else_.

 _Ah._

Now sat in the literal cold light of day, John didn't know what to make of this. He fell back against the pillows and stared up at the ceiling, glanced across to where he noted that the curtains had been pulled open. What he could see of the sky seemed grey and what he could make out of the apartment surroundings seemed damp, somehow. It wasn't raining now, but it might have been previous. Seemed like it was going to soon. The quality of the light felt bright somehow, but that still didn't shake the heavy feeling in John's chest.

 _This hasn't happened before._

This hadn't happened in this particular arrangement, at least. Past memory brought hazy recollection of similar reactions in different situations - waking up the morning after, always feeling awkward, always feeling somewhat _spare_. The other person in question feeling their morning routine more important than staying put, figuring that _that_ problem could stay sleeping until which time as they woke up and left quietly, minimal words spoken. Once, he'd woken up to a list of instructions detailing the location of his discarded clothes throughout the house and how precisely to operate the lock on his departure. The mornings often seemed to bring that kind of distance and things like that brought an extra cold element to chill whatever feelings had brought them to that point to begin with. Unable to prevent himself considering those past events, John's mind did eventually dredge up the one statement that made this somewhat different.

( _... This is my apartment, though._ )

Of course it was. If it was anybody's place in which to feel uncomfortable and out-of-place, it was--... it was--...

Sitting up again, slower this time, John rubbed a hand over his eyes before reaching for his glasses. Jon was still here? Sleep be damned, that thought in itself was more exhausting than any recent slumber could rectify. Jon was still here? _Really_?... Only one way to find out. Stepping out of bed, he made a vague attempt at throwing some clothes on before daring to venture into the world beyond his bedroom. He pushed the open door and let it swing forth, stepped into the small area that separated the bedroom and the bathroom from the main livingspace. He went to walk into the lounge area before hearing a voice - Jon was speaking, and not to him. John lingered in that space for a few moments, cautiously listening in.

"... Yeah. Yeah. I know. Yeah, I know--... I'm sorry. I don't know when I'll be back--..." A small laugh, "... Yeah. I--... I might be back tonight. Might not be. Depends. ...I wouldn't even blame you. I'm not saying--... you _know_ I'm not saying that--! Yeah, I know. ...I know you know I know, I'm just sayin'. Yeah, I--"

The obvious warmth in Jon's voice left no question as to who it was he was calling. Still feeling somewhat leaden, John walked into the lounge area. Walking past the sofa he could see through to the kitchen, could see Jon occupied at one of the counters where, John knew, the toaster lay. Jon didn't seem to notice him until he reached the kitchen itself, touching the handle of the open door just to cause sound to announce his presence. Jon seemed slightly startled at this, settling into familiarity as he offered a greeting nod before turning back to the toaster, which had since popped up. He gingerly took the two slices to a plate he had ready and leant his phone on his shoulder as he reached for a knife.

"-- I'll call you back. Yeah. ...Yeah, he's awake. ...Yeah, I will. You too. See you soon, Stephen. Yeah--... bye--...!"

A small _bip_ as the call ended; Jon looked at the phone before slipping it into a trouser pocket, then looking up with a smile that John felt was somewhat too bright for the occasion.

"Good morning, sunshine...! Sleep well? How do you take your toast? I guess you have toast, I found bread in there. You need to go shopping or something, you don't keep much in here, do you?"

John ran a hand through his hair in confusion. _Sunshine?_ "... I--... I tend to buy what I need when I need it." _No, that's not--_... "Jon?"

"Yes?" His voice still held a playful, somewhat teasing tone.

"What are you doing here?"

Jon had been spreading butter over one slice of toast when John had asked. That question seemed to cancel out whatever misplaced enthusiasm Jon had for it being the morning, and he stared down at the toast as he cut it into triangles before glancing up at John.

"You really wanna go that route so early in the morning?"

"I don't know, we're not too far off lunchtime now. I wouldn't really call this the 'early morning' anymore."

"It's before lunchtime and it's Saturday. It's still the early morning, John."

John took a seat at the small dining table, more through habit than through acknowledgement of Jon's domesticity. "Fine. That doesn't explain to me why you're still here, though."

Jon set the toast down onto the table in front of where John sat, going back to put two more slices into the toaster before lightly shrugging. "Guess I just slept too long. You know how it is sometimes? I've been getting kinda interrupted sleep the last little while, don't know if you've noticed. Maybe something in my head just said _Jon, you know what? It's Saturday tomorrow. Have a lie in_. I don't know."

They were silent as the second round of toast popped up, as John was sure that Jon was waiting on him to contribute to the conversation. What was there to say, though? John wondered if he'd imagined the slight note that seemed to imply him responsible for this 'interrupted sleep'. It wasn't so much that that fact was false, more strange that Jon would even mention it to begin with. _We don't talk about this_. John tapped a finger against the table before taking one of the slices of toast, watching as Jon brought his own over and sat on the chair opposite. He looked up at John before pulling his chair in, as if reminding him that the social cue still lay with him (despite the fact that Jon himself still, really, hadn't explained anything to John's own satisfaction).

"Um--... okay." Something occurred. "... You were on the phone to Stephen?"

"... Yeah. Yeah, I was. Just thought I'd let him know where I was. Didn't want him to worry."

That seemed a rather strange point to take in, a little too much for John to properly process. "He--... he knows you're here?"

"He knows I'm here, yeah."

"Does he--... does he _know_...?"

Jon leant his head on one hand, smiling across at John. "What Stephen knows is between me and him."

John couldn't help but think to himself how unnecessarily cryptic such a statement was, and did nothing to dissuade the strange disassociated feelings that seemed to be sprouting up the further this conversation went on (or failed to). Maybe Stephen knew or maybe he didn't, but Jon didn't think that any business of John's? Fine, but--... this whole situation was--... this was all between them, wasn't it? There wouldn't be anything to be secretive about - or not - were it not for all of _this_ , and finding Jon Stewart in his kitchen of a morning didn't lead John to believe that this felt any more appropriate. Maybe it _was_ too early in the morning to be discussing such things, but it just so happened to be the time that they came across each other. This was an incongruent point on the chart and John knew that if there was _any_ time to address the issue then now, unexpected as it seemed, was probably the time.

It wasn't as if this hadn't been building for quite some time, either. It wasn't as if every encounter hadn't left John with nagging feelings and questions he couldn't answer, questions he couldn't _ask_. It wasn't as if all of this hadn't been leading to _something_ and maybe, John thought, a quiet discussion over breakfast was what it all came down to. Perhaps, out of everything, _this_ would be enough. With this in mind, John deliberated over his toast for as long as it took him to gather his thoughts, _any_ of his thoughts. He was down to the last half of one slice remaining before he sighed and pushed the plate a few inches away from where it had been.

"... Jon?"

"Yes?" He spoke like he'd been waiting.

"... Let's--... let's not do this anymore."

John wasn't too sure quite what he expected from Jon for saying this; he sat with his head slightly bowed, but dared momentarily to glance upward just to gauge Jon's reaction. He sat with his chin leant against the tips of his fingers, closing his eyes with a small nod. "Okay."

 _So reasonable. Too reasonable_. "I just--..." Jon hadn't seemed to require further explanation, but John felt compelled to give it. "... I'm--... this isn't _me_ , Jon. I--... I don't behave like this."

"... You did, though." Jon's voice wasn't accusing, merely factual. John knew that, bowing his head again.

"... I know. But I just--... I _don't_." He looked up. "...I--... I don't."

Jon only nodded, "... I understand."

There were so many elements to consider, in this situation - that of Rob and John, of Jon and Stephen, of all those around them and all that had led to this - but in the end, it seemed unnecessary to say much about any of them. The basic fact of the matter was, John felt, that this should probably stop. It wasn't getting them anywhere. It wasn't _for_ anything. It didn't correlate with anything else and, hidden as it was, seemed to hold quite the destructive power were it to ever come to light. Was something that they'd seemed to fall into accidentally really worth anything like the kind of risk and destruction it potentially held?... John looked across at Jon, keeping that in mind. He didn't hate Jon for this, didn't resent him for it, but even now still found it hard to picture him being involved in anything like this. He was the kind of person who, when it came to small, certain things, still lay lofty and unreachable. And that, John felt, was right and correct. He didn't need to know what Stephen thought. For all that this could risk, it was no actual _threat_. No threat lay before those two.

"I--... um..."

"Yes?"

John wasn't sure how to counter the silence, and this left him feeling nervous. There had been _something_ , and now it was ending. And Jon seemed to be taking it entirely in his stride, but John wasn't sure that he had quite that kind of strength. Was it really alright just to finish this like that? Through all of the confusion that this had caused, through all the awkward moments, had five words and a decisive attitude been all it would have taken to end it? That seemed almost ridiculous. Something so simple they might never have suspected. Nonetheless, it had taken until now for the silence between them to feel as if such discussion could dare to be cultivated in the first place, perhaps _that_ was what it took to move the situation on. And it had to, John knew it. It couldn't stay like this. It could end like this but really, he knew, it should have never started to begin with. Was there any fault in this situation? He wasn't even sure, and _that_ was where the strangeness lay; John wasn't sure he'd ever had to broach such a situation with the ready knowledge of such a lack of conflict before. Anything he did, Jon didn't mind. Anything he said, Jon entertained. John couldn't understand that at all. Was this not the kind of attitude that would be incredibly easy for somebody to take advantage of...?

 _He wouldn't let them, though._

Looking across at him, John knew that Jon would never let that happen. John was ending this because he felt it was uncomfortable, and the thought of anybody relishing this kind of arrangement enough to take malicious advantage concerned him on Jon's behalf--... but he knew that Jon would never be so vulnerable like that. John was not the kind to take advantage and he felt that, somehow, Jon knew this. It wasn't a danger and he wasn't a threat and John felt that if Jon had thought that he ever _was_ , this situation would never have come about. Jon told John to do whatever he wanted, but had never lost the upper hand. Jon had told John to do whatever he wanted and he had, within the mental boundaries that their prior relationship set. He did as he wanted because Jon allowed it. Because Jon seemed to want it. Was there anything that would make Jon uncomfortable? If there was, John wasn't sure he was capable of it and, again, felt that Jon suspected this, too.

"... Is it... okay?"

A small breath of a laugh, "You think I'm gonna back you in a corner, say we gotta carry on?" Jon reached over and took John's unfinished slice. "I'm not that kind of guy. You think we should stop this? Fine." He crunched down the toast. That playful note returned alongside a small smile, "... It's 'cause of me, isn't it? Not as young as I once was. Twenty years ago, you wouldn't have known what'd hit you!... ...Jesus, twenty years..."

Even while meant in jest, John was never good at responding to such subjects and he knew this from practice and failure, which didn't make Jon's self-deprecation any easier to reply to. "No no no, it--... it wasn't that at all, it's not about that, it's not about _you_ like that, I mean--... you were--... it was--... it was good--!" ( _Too enthusiastic, try again_.) "I, I mean... it was good, you were serviceable--"

" _Serviceable_? I'm not a _car_ , John--!"

The incredulous tone in Jon's voice made John wince, feeling the sinking sensation of _that's where getting flustered gets you_. "N-no, I--... I mean--...!"

"Calm down, I'm only joking. You know I'm only joking."

"... I know, I know." _At least you're able to joke about it_ , John supposed.

The light-hearted brevity seemed to fall somewhat in the silence that followed, as John dared glance up at Jon to try to predict the direction of the conversation. Jon met that stare for a moment, then looking back down to the table with a brief smile that was almost fond, almost _wistful_. "All that aside... it's up to you, John. ...It was always only ever up to you."

"... You make it sound like some sort of test."

"Maybe it was."

 _That_ made John pause, but Jon didn't elaborate. Instead, he was out of his seat and taking the plates from the table, going over to the sink and running hot water. John watched him but didn't say anything.

"... Promise me something though, John."

"... What?"

"Promise me you'll talk to Riggle."

Guilt and shame mixed in with any thought of _that_ prospect. "... About this?"

Jon put one clean plate to the side to dry before turning around to face John, folding his arms. "About anything. About whatever. About shit you won't tell me. You don't haveta let him know about this if you don't want to, I'm not going to be tattling any time soon. Just deal with it however you feel you got to deal with it. Keep it secret, if you think you can. If you can't... just talk to him."

"About the fact that I cheated on him? With my boss? Yes, I'm sure he'll take _that_ well."

"I don't know, give him some credit. I think he's man enough. Look, whatever; just don't bottle it all up inside, John. You've seen what that does, doesn't do you any good."

"You're saying I'm repressed?"

"I'm sayin' you got shook up a little and exploded. ...Yeah, I'm saying you're repressed."

John couldn't help but smile, "Good old British repression."

Jon smiled in return, but looked to John with serious eyes. "... I'm not saying you can't talk to me. Talk to me if you want, talk to _Stephen_ if you want, he'll listen if you gotta talk, but... I think Riggle's the one you got issue with here. Do whatever you have to, just, you know. Don't do it alone. People care about you, yeah? They get worried."

John felt slightly ashamed that Jon felt the need to tell him this so clearly, but couldn't fault it. "... I--... know."

"Riggle's worried."

"... I know."

"So make him not worry." Jon kept his voice gentle. "Whatever's got to you about him leaving, it's not gonna get any better if you keep pushing him away... okay? We've got that break coming up. You've arranged something, haven't you?"

"He has. I think we're running off to the mountains together."

A smile, "Right, right. Sounds like his kind of thing. Make sure you enjoy yourself out there...!"

"I'll keep that in mind."

As if drawing a line under the conversation, Jon moved from beside the sink, going back through to the lounge; John looked up and followed him a few moments later, coming in to see Jon picking up his coat and glancing around, presumably to ensure that he hadn't left anything else lying around. John couldn't deny a small sense of freedom that came from knowing that they'd managed to bring this strange situation to some kind of close, from knowing that they wouldn't have to continue to endure whatever it was that they had somehow fallen into sharing, but... seeing Jon put his coat on and head for the door, John couldn't help but feel that small tremor of something akin to uncertainty, too. Was it _really_ alright to end it like this...? It was something that was ending. Wasn't it something like that that had caused all of this to begin with? To say that it was a case of something else ending, John would nonetheless have been the first to admit a sneaking sense of relief.

 _Let the boundaries re-establish themselves_ , he thought. Jon at the head of his correspondent family, with Stephen ever-present to the side. The correspondents themselves. Those ex-correspondents, who'd always know that they'd been a part of that, once. John knew the possibilities of awkward conversations with Rob on the horizon but for the moment, the horizon felt far enough away to afford some small respite. If it became an issue then it'd become an issue, and they'd have to deal with it. _Actually_ deal with it, as opposed to creating more problems for the long run. John guided Jon through to the front hallway, wondering if it had really taken until now for him to realise something like that. Maybe. Maybe all of this had just served as a timely reminder. Everybody made mistakes, didn't they? Holding the front door open and looking at Jon as he did so, John couldn't help but feel that some mistakes were far worse than others.

 _This could have been a lot worse._

Standing on the lower doorstep, Jon turned and smiled up at John. "Well, then. See you on Monday, I guess?"

"Right, see you on Monday." Jon seemed for a moment as if he was about to leave, but paused on John continuing to speak. "Um--... Jon?"

Jon looked up and John faltered, glancing to the side. "... I--... I don't know if I should be thanking you or apologising."

"Save it until you know for sure, then tell me. It can wait." A smile. "We're not going anywhere, remember?"

John looked up and looked Jon in the eye, remembering. _Knowing_. Feeling comforted in that shared knowledge. He smiled in return, "... Right."

Jon took a step further away, but still faced John. He kept that small smile on his lips and a _look_ in his eyes, looking John over as if internally debating a point. John gently frowned his slight curiosity, "... What is it?"

"Hm?"

"You looked as if you had something to say. And, you know. You weren't leaving."

"I was just thinking... you're probably sick of secrets by now, aren't you?"

John leant one arm against the doorframe, "Something like that. Why?"

"Here's one last one for you to keep. Remember, it's a _secret_...!"

Jon had lowered his voice to a whisper; John leant down and closer, as seemed to befit the situation. "Right...?"

"... Maybe I do play favourites, sometimes." A small half-shrug, "Shouldn't, but, hey. Can't help it."

"I see...?"

"I'm just sayin', maybe there's something in those whispers after all. But it's a secret, so keep it to yourself." Jon pressed a finger to his lips to indicate silence on the matter, a mischievous look in his eyes.

John tapped his nose in return, "Will do."

One last nod to seal the deal, and then Jon was walking away. John watched but made no move to stop him; Jon turned the end corner without looking back. John watched for a few moments afterward _just in case_ , though just in case of what exactly, he wasn't entirely sure. Either way, nothing happened; _it's safe now_. He closed the door, standing on the inside and leaning against it for a few moments. Listening to the silence that came from the lack of Jon's presence, from the lack of anybody at all.

 _...It's safe, now._

In the meantime, it was a Saturday lunchtime and there was nothing that had a pressing _need_ to be done; John threw himself down onto the sofa and went to reach for the television's remote control, before glancing across at the landline telephone that lay on the other side of the room. He considered it for a moment before putting the remote down, picking himself up again, bringing the phone across to the sofa as far as the cord would stretch. Lying down against the length of the sofa, John held the receiver to his ear as he dialled Rob's number. Why hadn't they been able to meet up this weekend, again?... John couldn't remember any specific reason, supposing it was probably more to do with his own stubborn thoughts. Maybe distance was an issue, but--... _it doesn't matter anymore_. John settled down against the cushions as he waited on Rob to pick up, a playful thought in his mind. Would it _really_ hurt to share a secret...? It wasn't every day that you found out that you were Jon Stewart's favourite, after all.

" _Heyyy, John! Morning! How are you? You good?_ "

(And there was Rob, just as he ever was.)

"Yeah, I'm... I'm well. And you? Hard at work, I hope...?"

" _Oh jeez, you can't even know how much I'm lookin' forward to this break. Don't know how much fun I'm gonna be, right now I feel like I could just sleep through the whole week..._ "

"Well, you've got another week to go, try to survive until then..."

" _Don't remind me! God._ "

"I'll have to keep an eye on you, make sure I don't lose you to hibernation...!"

" _Yeah well, if it's you wakin' me up, that's fine. You better be looking forward to this too, John--! I'm not gonna let you get out of this one--!_ "

"I wouldn't want to, Rob. I wouldn't want to."

(and that wasn't a lie.)

Relaxing back against the sofa, shifting to find the right position, John let Rob talk for as long as he felt he needed. Listened to everything, spoke without feeling guarded. Felt a lightness of his chest he hadn't felt for far too long, felt all the better for it. The more Rob spoke on the prospect of the trip upcoming, the more energetic he seemed to become; the feeling was quite infectious.

 _Perhaps_ , John thought, _we can survive this, after all_.

(and he smiled.)


End file.
